Magos
by Salty Mog
Summary: FF6. Not quite a novelization. Chapter 2 - The end result of a monk, samurai, ninja, and wild child, all together on the Veldt.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters in no way belong to me; that privilege lies solely with Square-Enix. Additionally, I'm not making any money off this story; I do this stuff for fun.

**Chapter 1, Part I.**

The railway continued all the way to South Figaro, through some of the most spectacular mountain scenery ever to catch hold of the wandering attentions of men. Or so Locke Cole claimed.

The cold wooden floor of their cargo car thrummed and swayed gently beneath her as Terra pressed her face against the place where oil-stained planks met the splintering, sliding door, but all she could see was a sliver of green beyond the worn iron of the tracks, speeding past so quickly it made her eyes sore. Huffing in irritation, she pressed her face closer, the wood rough against her cheek. If she could just see a _little_ _farther..._

"You don't want to be looking out there right now anyhow, Terr." Locke reclined casually against the back wall, blade in hand, a seemingly ever-present hint of mischief playing along his features as he whittled doggedly away at a stick. His breath clouded slightly in the chilled air. "We're scuttling along a dropoff so steep you're like to get swallowed up just by acknowledging its presence. Up this high, the mountains have their own old souls, they say. Wind and Gravity, those two old thieves, will toss you into the not-so-loving caress of Thin Air before you can so much as shake their hands."

Abruptly the small, black dagger disappeared somewhere into the folds of his clothes. He arched his back into a languid stretch and winked. "Don't worry, though. Those fat dignitaries up front will hit the ground first. You and I would have loads of time to enjoy the view and listen to the songs the wind sings us before that ground came up to meet us, too."

Terra frowned at that and sat up, securing her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. "According to the laws of gravity, multiple objects of differing mass that are released at the same time will likewise reach the ground at the same time, barring significant differences in air resistance. Which is negligible, in this instance." Seeing his face grow blank, she hastily amended, "You _technically_ weren't wrong about the ground coming up to meet us, though, since the earth experiences a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to –"

"_Okay!" _He folded his arms and flashed her a mock glower. "They're just stories. Tales my grandma used to tell me. She knew all the old legends." He smiled. "I probably shouldn't be talking about falling off cliffs at these heights, anyway. Bad luck and all."

Terra looked down at her intertwined fingers. "And wind can't shake hands," she finished in a mutter.

She was becoming all too accustomed to the way people looked at her when she said certain things – like it had been unexpected, or strange, or downright disturbing. Locke had become adept at curbing his own reactions as their days together stretched on; or perhaps he was simply good at taking the new and unexpected in stride. She didn't believe anything daunted the man; he approached most things with an enthusiasm that – to her – was baffling.

Besides, it wasn't like she had even _talked_ to enough people to build a comparable data set. Terra's world had been reduced to the size of a marble. Her personal history encompassed this train and the stark, snowy city of Narshe, built between towering mountain peaks on its foundation of rock and iron and coal. Her personal knowledge included her own name, that of this strange, roguish man she had fallen in with, and Arvis – the first face she had known in this new existence, like some ironic rendition of a newborn being brought into the world. But unlike a newborn, she _knew_ things. She knew what a peach tasted like, and how to operate machinery, and histories of the old wars between Vector and Doma, and the humid, heavy air of an impending downpour. She knew calculus and the smell of a campfire and how physics made the world run. Locke had rambled on about retrograde amnesia and selective memory loss as he theorized on her condition, but she knew that psychology had never interested her so she let the mind in question wander as he flapped his arms excitedly and talked to himself.

She also knew how to gather and excite molecules in order to form a crackling ball of fire in the palm of her hand, though some deep, hidden survival instinct whispered that this particular knowledge was better kept to herself.

She knew she did not know people. They were like Imperial Heavy Armors with all the circuits rewired and some of the cables cut and the drivers' controls installed backward, and yet somehow they still functioned. Their logic circuits were overdriven with emotional feedback, continuously spitting out invalid conclusions and analytical fallacies. It baffled her and made her head hurt.

One of said problematic individuals in question was currently hunched over a ratty old map he had unfolded on a crate and staked in one corner with his dagger. He chewed on a green apple as his free hand absently tugged on a loose end of the frayed and faded bandana that customarily capped his head, giving him the faint appearance of an Albrookian pirate. Judging by the stretched and distorted fabric in that spot, Terra concluded this was a frequent subconscious habit of his.

Feeling her gaze, Locke glanced up and motioned her over with a smile.

"We're about a day and a half out of Narshe," he said. "That puts us right about here." His finger thumped at a spot several hundred miles south of the frozen mountain city. "A day and a night more will put us in South Figaro, all the way down here."

"Are we going to South Figaro?" She may as well have asked if they were going to the moon, for all that city in its current state meant to her.

"Nope. The train will be making a mandatory stop at a waystation sometime this evening. That's where you and I go our own way." Rummaging about in one of the packs, he pulled out a large yellow apple. "Here, I saved the best one for you."

Terra looked at it. "Locke, since breakfast this morning, approximately one hour ago, you've tried to feed me our entire journey's worth of edible supplies."

Locke looked slightly abashed. "No I haven't. Look –" Digging stubbornly through the depths of the pack, he finally emerged with something that could have possibly been called a biscuit in another life and waved it in the air triumphantly. "See?"

She stared, unimpressed.

He drooped and returned the lump of petrified flour to the pack. "You're just too bleedin' skinny," he protested. "Didn't they feed you anything in that golden Imperial city of theirs? I know chow hall food isn't the most inspiring fare, but couldn't they have at least provided you with a good bowl of chicken soup before sending you off traipsing around in the snow?

'Wait, don't answer that," he backpedaled, seeing her forehead crease in consternation as she opened her mouth to reply. "I'm just rambling, and you're hardly likely to remember what you _ate_ while wearing a _slave crown_." His expression twisted in revulsion on the words, and his eyes glinted with a sudden potent, deep-seated anger. Terra got the niggling feeling that this conversation no longer had anything to do with food and hunched deeper into her flannel blanket, eyeing him warily.

"Actually," she replied, "I was merely going to inform you that you sound like a worrying old grandmother."

Locke gaped, anger vanished. "I do not!"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"If what you mean by that is 'do too,' I repeat: Do not."

"You do."

"Not."

Terra stared at him. It was becoming an increasingly familiar action. The man was worse than a miswired Heavy Armor; he was a Spitfire whose propellers had been attached with duct tape.

Resolved to change the subject to something less aggravating, she drew deep from the well of her less-affected memories for a topic of polite conversation. Irritatingly, the bucket returned largely empty. Perhaps she had never possessed conversational skills to begin with.

"Arvis informed me you work as a thief," she tried with polite interest.

Based on the man's immediate reaction, it was evident that her sketchy bank of social niceties had failed her. However, the deep shades of purple and red that colored his face were fascinating enough to make it worth the miscalculation.

"_Thief?" _He leaped to his feet, face stormy with outrage. "The man calls me a _thief. _Well. I see how it is. I don't know what kind of falsehoods that backstabbing git filled your head with before I got there, Terr, but don't you be believing everything you hear. Especially not from senile old men like him. When I see him again, I'm going to rip his sodding lungs out," he finished darkly.

As he flopped down next to her on the floor of the swaying car, the sudden bad temper seemed to evaporate all at once. He studied her, face serious. "I _was_ a thief, you know, once upon a time. But I gave that life up long ago."

Terra wondered if she would ever not be confused again. "But...I saw you take a potion from the scholars in that classroom in Narshe. It was hidden in a chest in the back room and you picked the lock."

His face went carefully blank. "That was borrowing."

"But–"

"They had loads of healing cocktails stashed away back there; one less isn't going to hurt them any."

"So–"

"Well!" he exclaimed brightly. "We've still got a full day ahead of us. What shall we do to pass the time? Another round of I Spy?"

"Last time you spied a crate and a spider. I guessed each in two questions."

"Right, right." He shrugged. "At least all these boxes keep us insulated some. It gets cold up in these mountains, even with spring just around the corner." Locke looked at her apologetically. "Sorry we couldn't travel in something nicer, Terr. If we weren't in hiding I'd have you in first class dining on tiny Figarian delicacies, not freezing back here in a dusty old cargo car."

She tilted her head quizzically. The man was very._..protective._ "Using logical deduction from your account of the series of events that have led to this point, I conclude that luxury hasn't often been a prominent part of my lifestyle. Therefore, your sentiments aren't necessary."

Locke considered her, one eyebrow raised. A small smile began tugging at the corner of his mouth. "...You know, you're really something, Terra."

A sudden blast of the train's whistle saved her from thinking of a reply. The sound had become as common and even soothing as the constant clacking of the rails below, of the low chugging of the train itself. This time, however, it extended itself into a brief burst of blasts that Terra's trained mind instantly identified as a deliberate pattern, though to the unmindful it mostly likely would have blended into itself, unnoticed.

Locke's body went rigid at the sound, like a gray lobo to his pack's distant call of warning. Abruptly he was on his feet and shouldering the rucks, every shred of his devil-may-care demeanor vanished. "Time to go, Terr."

Even as he spoke the train began to slow ever so slightly, pressure brakes releasing in a forceful hiss and cars groaning at the change in forces. Terra stood too, letting the blanket fall to the floor. "Locke, what's going on?"

Locke glanced back from where he was already busy at the end of the car, shoving crates away from the back wall. "Bring that," he commanded, nodding his head toward the fallen blanket. "We don't want to leave any easy evidence for them."

"Them?" She was surprised at the strain and vulnerability she heard in her own voice, and the twinge of panic blooming deep in her stomach. _Again, they're after you again, always running... _Though the kaleidoscopic spectrum of human emotions often felt as inscrutable to her as a rainbow to a color blinded man, she knew fear. Fear lurked in every corner of this tiny world of hers – from the Narshite officers' shouts as she stumbled blindly over icy rocks, to the black maw of that cave, to falling and falling among showers of debris into suffocating darkness, to hiding, always hiding, and finally, to the realization that her mind was lost to her. And over it all a _voice_, lurking in firelit nightmares, a voice she knew but didn't, pervasive and intangible and terrifying and...and _laughing._

Suddenly Locke was there, his face close to hers, his gloved hands gently gripping her narrow shoulders. "Hey," he soothed, eyes searching hers. "You still with me?"

Terra drew a shuddering breath. "Yes..." she faltered. What was wrong with her? Locke's hands warmed her shoulders even through the thick material of her winter jacket. She took a moment to absorb his realness, drawing on his strength to patch her faltering psyche back together. "Yes." This time a declaration. "Please Locke, tell me what's going on."

His eyes searched her face again, briefly, then he released her with a quick squeeze and returned to whatever he had been doing in the back of the car. Terra saw now that he was worrying at the rusty latches of what appeared to be a trap door, set low in the wall.

"The whistle was a message," he explained. "A warning. Just as you can hardly walk the Figarian markets anymore without brushing shoulders with an undercover Imperial Intel op, we Returners have got a few friends stashed around as well. The owner of Figaro Railways is quietly sympathetic to our cause, and hires people who can keep their mouths shut. We mostly leave each other alone, but he does his part by looking the other way when we feel the need to hitch a covert ride, and by warning us when there's trouble of the brown uniform variety. My guess is we're dealing with an Imperial blockade up ahead."

Anxiety clutched at her heart once more. She hated the way it felt, how invasive these human sentiments were."Shouldn't we hurry, then?"

He now had his shoulder against one of the sliding bolts, shoving hard as he wiggled the warped bar free inch by inch, old flakes of rust falling loose to dust his knees orange-red. "We've still got time," he grunted, and though she saw he worked with urgency, it was well controlled. "We still have to reach the end of Deadman's Noose before they can even board. Meanwhile, the arseholes are sitting there feeling pretty smug, assuming that no one could _possibly_ be crazy enough to jump out of a moving train into these canyons. So they're in no hurry. Though if I can't get this friggin' _door_ open soon we may as well climb in one of these crates and wrap it up all pretty with a friendly gift tag addressed 'To Gestahl With Love,' " he muttered, kicking hard at the door. "Would it have killed old Francis to come back here and lube up these bolts now and then?"

Terra's attention, however, had lurched to a halt at the part about the Imperials and smug assumptions. " 'The Imperials don't think anybody will be crazy enough to jump,' " she repeated slowly. "Locke. Are you implying that we _are_ crazy enough?"

With a final heave, he wrenched the second bar free. The squat door swung outward, admitting a view of the next car in line and a sudden blast of noise as the din of metal on metal amplified to a veritable cacophony. A sharp, piney-smelling cold gusted inside, flattening the loose ends of his hair around his jaw as he turned back to regard her with false hurt. "Aw, c'mon Terra!" he yelled, barely audible over the clamor. "Don't you trust me? I've got a plan, of course!" With that, he flattened to his belly and disappeared head first through the trap door (which, she deduced with some displeasure, had clearly been constructed with moogles in mind).

There was nothing for it but to follow. Mindful of splinters, Terra carefully flattened herself to the floor and poked her head through the door.

Locke had already thrown himself across the swaying car connectors with the agility of an acrobat and the heed of a suicidal maniac, and was busily working at what appeared to be an identical trap door on the next car in line. Terra, however, hardly noticed. Her attention was pulled forcibly to the stark, towering mountains off to the right, jagged and razor sharp like a motley set of daggers. Snow clothed the arsenal of peaks but did nothing to soften their severity. Beyond that, though...beyond that, the sun was rising from an icy bed of distant snowstorms; it ignited everything in orange and magenta and molten gold. Terra felt her heart seize once again, but this time it was not in fear. The morning light played across the cracks and crevasses and mountain folds in astounding ways, highlighting details in a study of contrasts. Rivers and lakes that were otherwise hidden in shadowed, snowy valleys caught hold of stray sunbeams and flung them back into the sky, turning their own rippled surfaces into glowing mirrors of the mountains. And beyond that...where her eyes were familiar with little besides city and houses, chimneys and industrial yards and suburbs stretching off to stalk the horizon...beyond that the world was nothing but whites and greens and blues, rocks and forest and snow and cloud, layer upon layer until even those colors faded to become one with the sky.

Terra had never seen anything so beautiful. Even the part of her brain that was hiding her life from her agreed.

The snow-specked eddies created by the speeding train had ripped her ponytail out of its holder long ago, whipping her hair about her face in a wild sea green tangle. But she didn't care. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and let it wash over her – the smells of earth and pine, crisp mountain air tinged with the distant warming of spring, the wind roaring in her ears and caressing her face and cleansing her fear.

So this was what it was like to fly. Somehow it felt more natural than her earthbound state ever had. Terra smiled – a full, unrestrained smile – and for the briefest moment, in this unlikely circumstance, she discovered joy.

"Terra!"

Mind yanked back into the confines of her body and the dire situation at hand, her grasp on the moment fled. But it left behind a peace and calm that gave her courage. Opening her eyes, she peered across the rattling gap to see Locke eyeing her quizzically. Catching her gaze, he motioned her to toss the two survival packs across – no easy feat when one is crunched halfway through a door the size of a moogle cub onboard a speeding, bouncing train, as Terra immediately discovered. Only Locke's quick reflexes and aforementioned clear disregard for life saved their supplies from exploding all over the mountainside. Safely stashing them inside the next car, he clambered back down toward the connector to escort her across.

Terra shook her head at him. "I can do it myself!" she yelled. Wind whipping her red skirt tight around her legs, she crossed with the grace and confidence of a dancer. She smiled, her mind singing to the tune of the wind in her ears. Tiny specks of snow and ice, kicked up by the eddies of the passing train, floated about her in glittering swirls and stuck to her eyelashes as she pushed past Locke and scaled the other side. Glancing back at him in triumph, she dropped to her belly and shimmied into the new car.

Immediately a musty, earthy, animal smell assaulted her sinuses. The car was dark with the exception of a few slats near the ceiling, which allowed a handful of narrow sunbeams to slip through. In the dust-filtered light, she could make out an unremarkable collection of yet more wooden crates, stacked neatly against one wall. On the opposite side, animal pens crowded together in a cramped but orderly row. In one of those pens stood a large yellow chocobo rooster. It was staring at her. And it looked displeased.

Locke's head popped through the door, bandana askew and silvery hair falling into his eyes. Pulling himself through and climbing to his feet, he brushed the dirt off his pants and gave Terra a brief, bemused look, then turned to eye the burly rooster. It assessed him with a deliberate, beady-eyed gaze in turn. Terra believed she may have witnessed that same expression on an overweight Jidooran man eyeing a medium-rare steak once.

"Well, I thought for sure there would be more than one in here. You can usually count on our noble friends up front to pack along at least a couple of their prize chocobos. Helps their image, ya know? How else would they make their grand entrances? You can't do that in the muddy boots of an honest working man, no sir. Would be downright scandalous." He began to pull a saddle and halter from a hook on the wall. "Well, can't be helped. Luckily this guy looks fit enough to take us both."

Terra watched him untangle the leather straps. She pulled the zipper of her quilted winter jacket closer to her chin and hugged her body against the chill. "You don't like nobility very much, do you."

"_Au contraire, ma chere!_" He turned to her with a grin. "One of my best friends is a king. That's how I know what lowdown, good-for-nothing pretty pansy boy arses they are." He winked. "You'll love him!"

She blinked. "We're actually going to see this...king?"

"Soon's we got off this blasted train." Brandishing the saddle, he swung open the stall gate and strode toward the rooster. "While I get this guy set up why don't you see if you can find us any extra supplies in those crates over – _owww_ you bloody bird that HURT!"

Trilling a long, satisfied wark of triumph, the chocobo pranced once around its pen and then, for good measure, swiped its long talons at Locke's hastily retreating form. It cocked its head at them, menace in its eyes and a bit of blood on its beak.

Locke clutched an injured hand to his chest. "The thing _bit _me!"

"I saw."

He turned a mournful gaze on her, eyes entreating.

"Well what do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"Aren't women supposedly good with animals?"

She scoffed. "Aren't _you_ supposedly good with animals?"

"Well, not this one, apparently. C'mon, Terra. Can't you try...just, talking to it or something?"

"It's a giant chicken. You want me to _talk_ to a giant chicken."

"They're actually extremely intelligent, ya know. Alright then, _I'll_ try talking to it. Hey, chicky chicky," he began in a singsong voice. "Can you do us all a favor and give us a ride down the mountain? I promise you'll have more fun than if you stay with that stodgy old cologne-soaked master of yours. He probably digs his knees too hard into your poor tender sides, doesn't he. I bet he has bad breath, too. You know I've got the right of it. Yeah, that's right...nice and easy...good bird..."

The bird growled, deep in its throat. Judging the futility of his efforts to be logarithmically skyrocketing, Terra turned to scan the nearest stack of crates. Conveniently, a crowbar lay discarded in a pile of scrap, possibly left behind by a Narshite loader. Whatever the reason, it served Terra's purpose. Marching over, she hefted it in one hand and, in a smooth series of motions, soon had the top ripped off the nearest case. Inside was a neatly-placed rope of sausage links, wrapped in paper and carefully coiled to make maximum use of space. She considered. Did chocobos eat sausage? She turned to observe the monster bird, whose beak was currently bared wide in a taunting hiss. Between the bill, claws, and temperament, she judged that it probably took down full-grown cattle in its spare time.

Tossing the wrappers aside, she ripped off a few links and strode back to the strutting rooster and a treasure hunter who was beginning to show significant signs of stress. At the tortured sound of dislodged nails, Locke had turned to glance in her direction, and had been immediately rewarded with a hard peck to the shoulder. His gentle coaxing had now disintegrated into grinding threats. "Look, you mangy ball of fluff. You have approximately _two minutes_ to let me tie this saddle to your back. If you don't, I'm going to pull out those ugly tail feathers and use them to stuff a frilly pink pillow for your master's spoiled daughter. Then I'm going to toss your wings in my grandma's famous herbed breading and fry them up for a barbecue, which I'll serve up to all the little orphans of Figaro. And you know what I'll do next? I'll turn your head into a puppet and use it for the after dinner show. Don't think I won't, you lousy bird, because there's a whole pack of ravening Imperials at the end of this line and I am _not_ ending up in another one of their detention camps, you hear me? Now, what's it gonna be?"

The chocobo warked derisively and made a rude gesture.

Terra silently agreed that the threats rang rather empty, considering the circumstances. Stepping to the gate, she thrust the sausage links in the rooster's face. "Here, bird. Food."

As one, Locke and the chocobo turned to stare at her in perplexity. At least they seemed to finally agree on something. "Uh, Terr..." the treasure hunter began, hesitantly. "Chocobos actually need greens...herbivores and all that." His forehead creased. "Did you just rip that crate open with a crowbar?"

"Well, you could have fooled me," she snapped, ignoring the last statement. "It seems to me that he _likes_ the taste of human flesh." The train was slowing significantly now. Terra guessed they were finally emerging from the Noose Locke had mentioned, in which case their time was growing alarmingly short. Locke obviously felt the same bite of urgency, as his cheerful affectations had all but disappeared. Cursing, he tossed the saddle into a corner and jogged over to their packs, where his rummaging took on a distinctly frantic edge. "Okay, chocobo ride is out. Time for plan B," he ground, lips tight.

Terra turned to stare at the irksome bird, considering. It stared back.

She glanced over her shoulder at the frenzied treasure hunter. His head was all but buried in the pack, a ring of discarded survival equipment lying around him like corpses after one of Kefka's raids.

Where had _that_ thought come from?_ Kefka? Do I know that name?_ It tasted of unease. Frowning, she grasped at the tickling of a memory, but it was gone before her mind had even fully conceived of its existence.

Shaking off the odd feeling, she turned back to the bird and looked it straight in its beady black eyes. Almost pleasantly, she extended a hand, palm up. Summoning the necessary carbon and oxygen atoms, extracting them from the world around her and combining them into their appropriate configurations, was as natural to her as passing air through her lungs, and as quick as thought a sphere of fire rushed to life in her hand. Well-contained, it burned in ghostly silence, but the heat it radiated was intense enough to sear the inside of her nose as she breathed and scorch the softer down around the chocobo's beak. Eyes wide, it scrambled to the back of its pen.

"Look, bird," she murmured lowly, leaning over the rail to make sure it heard. "You are going to take us out of here. Otherwise...all those things he said?" She nodded her head toward Locke, still busy with the supplies. "I'll do for real." As unceremoniously as it had begun, the flame blinked back out of existence, leaving no evidence of its brief life but the faintest scent of burnt dust.

The giant bird cautiously poked its head forward, eying her warily. It sniffed her hand, where impossible elements had danced moments before. It looked at her, cocking its head to one side. And it seemed to come to a decision. With a warbled, almost cordial wark, it nuzzled its head briefly against her cheek and settled gracefully to the ground. Terra smiled at the unexpected brush of soft feathers against her face. "You _are_ a smart one," she murmured, scratching it gently beneath the beak, and clambered aboard.

Locke had finally emerged from the packs with a loop of slim nylon cord and what appeared to be a handful of sharpened metal grappling hooks. His voice was tight when he spoke. "Okay, here's what we need to do, Terra. First we're going to anchor you to the railing back there, and you're gonna get ready to climb...ohh..."

His sentence trailed off into quiet obliteration and his jaw dropped slightly. It was the first time she had ever seen him at a loss for words.

Terra smiled from her lofty height aboard the now-compliant rooster's broad back. She had to resist the urge to swing her legs like a child. "I reasoned with him."

Locke shook his head in wonderment. "Oookay," he managed. "Right then."

A loud whistle from up front seemed to jolt him back into action. Working quickly, he shouldered both the packs and tethered them loosely to his body with the nylon cord. There was no more time to load them properly, or even to mount the saddle. Bounding to the end of the car, Locke yanked open the door – a real one this time, thankfully, and not the fun-sized contraptions of earlier. In that moment, she realized to her dismay that she had no idea how to make the bird move forward. But Locke was back in a heartbeat, hoisting himself onto its back with impressive ease (she noticed it still stubbornly refused to kneel for him).

And in the next instant his chest was pressed against her back; his warm arms were circling her to grip the feathers at the chocobo's neck, so close that she could smell all the scents that were uniquely him, clinging to his jacket and hair and skin. Terra stiffened at the onslaught of human contact, nearly panicking. Feeling her go rigid, he eased his grip as much as he could without losing it entirely and sliding off the back. Immediately she felt ashamed, and her face burned. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she be _normal?_

He made a motion with his knees and the chocobo darted forward, all smooth grace. They stepped out onto an open-aired veranda, steps descending partially down one side, and Terra realized with mild surprise that they were standing at the end of the last car. She hadn't noticed earlier, when all she could focus on was the onslaught of mountain imagery as viewed from between two boxcars. But now the scenery opened up before them completely, in all the glory of the morning.

She leaned forward to peer up the train. Some distance ahead, the engine was just beginning to creep out over an incredibly tall, incredibly long trestle spanning two cliff faces. The open air below it gaped for a hundred feet or more – distance was difficult to measure with low-lying clouds from the valleys creeping up to obscure it – but the drop was no doubt alarming. Terra wondered if the bridge itself stood as yet another monument to the Figarians' ingenuity in engineering.

Their most immediate concern, however, lay just beyond the opposite side. Where an entire _battalion_ of Imperial browns waited, expectant. She could see the commanders in their nightblack body armor, prowling along the track next to the sharply-formed ranks, like hungry cats. The more terrifying were those who stood stock still, waiting, but with the easy stance of those with no need to question their own power, of the truly dangerous. A massive tank sat blocking the track, giving the engine just enough distance to come to a halt on solid ground but leaving the passenger cars stranded in open air. Finally, she could just catch the barest glimpse of a Heavy Armor tucked back among the trees. The goddesses only knew how many more they had stowed away in that wood.

Terra shrank back. "Are...are all those for me?" She still had very little idea why they were chasing her, or even who "they" truly were. A niggling feeling told her that this was something that should hold the most significance for her – what consisted of this dreaded, shadowy Empire that awoke such tones of hatred in both Locke and Arvis; what it was all about. But when she reached for the memories, there was nothing but a cold, dark void to greet her. A void that occasionally echoed with insane laughter and bizarre flashes of color.

But she wasn't stupid. Obviously she was special to them in some way. Perhaps she carried some monstrous secret of theirs; perhaps it was her "talent." Possibly both. For that matter, she still wasn't even clear on Locke or Arvis' motives – what they had to gain by helping her. If helping her was, in fact, what they were doing. But they didn't seem to know about her talent. And Arvis had removed that cold thing from her head that had made her drown inside – that had robbed her of everything she ever held important and dear. Had robbed her of even the _knowledge_ of those things. Locke had risked his life to carry her out of those mines. Locke smiled at her, placed himself next to her in a way that made her feel safe, if confused. All the Imperials were doing was terrifying her by holding their train at cannonpoint.

Locke hadn't answered her question. He was studying their ranks with hard eyes, tucking every detail away deep into his memory – numbers, models, and the amount of travel equipment they had on hand, no doubt. "They're gonna cripple themselves with their own trap," he murmured. "Hold on tight, Terra."

Startled, she reflexively tightened her already white-knuckled grip on the chocobo's feathers. "We're going _now?_" The train had been slowing, it was true, but they were still trucking along fast enough that jumping didn't seem like it would contribute to a particularly long or healthy life. But Locke was already spurring their mount forward. With a screech, the chocobo darted off the veranda and carried them straight over the edge of a cliff.

Terra clutched the feathers desperately, just below her insane partner's gloved hands, and bit down hard on the terrified scream trying to escape her throat. But suddenly the bird's wings were flapping, and its feet clawed furiously, and she realized what they were hurtling down wasn't so much a cliff as a very steep slope. Though chocobos couldn't fly, their mount was making good use of his wings for balance and ballast while his claws dug deep into the ground for additional control. Locke pressed against her back suddenly, urging her into a crouch, and she knew why a second later as pine branches sang through the air where their heads had only just been. One of those in the face at speeds like this would likely take out eyes or teeth. Snow disturbed by their breakneck progress billowed about them in a huge, icy cloud, completely obscuring her vision as they continued to careen down the mountain.

Blinded and soaked, Terra remained in her huddled ball against the base of the bird's neck, bouncing and jostling painfully, until it finally began to slow. Sitting up tentatively, she peered around. The ground had leveled for the moment, though it appeared to continue in a more gentle descent farther ahead in the forest. The trees here seemed taller, the underbrush thinner. Most of their obstructions consisted of old fallen trees and branches, creating cagelike barriers which their chocobo navigated deftly. Best of all, though, was the notable lack of snow – it dusted the clearings, but otherwise left this portion of the wood untouched.

Terra turned to look behind them. Their mad descent down the slope had left a trail visible to probably half the continent.

She realized then that Locke was laughing wildly in what sounded suspiciously like exhilaration. The man was truly insane. She shot a withering look over her shoulder, teeth chattering as the ice melted on her skin and dripped down her back. He immediately sobered, though unrepentant glee still pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Aww, c'mon, Terr. Not twenty minutes ago you were train-hopping like an old bandit. You had the most beautiful, unconquerable expression on your face. I actually felt sorry for any future Imperials who might cross your path."

It seemed like a compliment, but she glared anyway. "Are they following us?"

She felt his shoulders shrug against her back. "They will, eventually; there's no way they can miss that trail we made. But we'll lose them over the next few days. I know all the best smuggling tracks in the country better than anyone – with the exception of that old barmy git Siegfried." She heard the scowl in his voice. Sensing that he was about to launch into one of his rambling diatribes, Terra hastily steered them back to the subject at hand. "But what if they're chasing us right now?"

"And there's the beauty of a carefully-laid Imperial plan...and my favorite moment of all time, when it blows up in their monochromatic faces," he declared, not even trying to disguise his smirk. "They purposefully parked the train on that bridge, so that they'd have full control of the passengers. All they had to do was send a couple a' troops hopping across the rooftops to get at the back; then they could search from both ends without worrying about anybody sneaking off into the underbrush through a side door. Most of all, it kept the passengers afraid. Fear is Gestahl's most beloved weapon." He snickered, but there was little humor to it. "So sad for them, we didn't wait around to fall into their trap. And even if they had seen us running off, the train's blocking the way of their heavies. And by the way, they didn't, because I waited till we passed behind Plato's Pinnacle to bail."

"Oh." She hadn't noticed.

They were quiet for a while, listening to the muted thumping of the chocobo's massive feet across the dead needle-strewn forest floor. It occurred to her that they really ought to give it a name. After all, it had just saved their lives. And she was actually starting to kind of like the thing.

Locke shifted behind her. "One thing I don't understand," he murmured, voice troubled, "is how they got so deep into Figarian territory. We should have known. If not us, then Edgar's spies, at least."

Terra shrugged. "I made it all the way to Narshe in a Heavy. According to you."

"Yes – worrisome, but also different. There were three of you, working on your own. We've never known the Empire to pull such a risky stunt before. We weren't expecting it at all. Now suddenly there's a whole battalion up here – at least – and we didn't even catch a glimmering of it? I know my intel people, and they're no one to be trifled with. Hells, I'm one of them myself." His left hand worried at one of the cornsilk feathers in agitation.

"Maybe I was commanding them," she stated matter-of-factly. "Before they put the cold thing on my head. Maybe I'm a tactical genius."

She felt him shift uncomfortably and turned to gaze at him from the corner of her eye. "Maybe by helping me you've brought a dragon snake into a mouse den. They look just like the harmless habo snake, but have hidden glands in their jaws that allow them to shoot poison over ten feet. Maybe I'm the dragon snake. Have you ever thought of that, Locke?"

She was obviously discomfiting the man terribly. "Look, Terra, you're not one of them. Whatever you've done in the past, it was under the influence of detestable men. I've seen the real you and she's _not_ a killer; I promise you that, Terr."

Her brows drew together. Who had said anything about killing, specifically? That is to say, she had _implied_ it with her snake analogy, and commanding scores of military troops often led to it, unsurprisingly, and it was possible some Narshite police had died at her hand. Arvis had carefully skirted around that topic. But there had been something else in the man's tone...as if he was referencing something specific...

She narrowed her eyes. "You know something about me." It only made sense, if what she was piecing together about him and the Returners was true.

"I really don't, Terra. They kept you well hidden from us." She couldn't see his face; couldn't tell if he was hiding something from her in turn. Not that she would have reliably been able to tell, anyway, she thought sourly; the part of her brain labeled _Relationships and Emotional Interactions _seemed remarkably inept. Locke continued. "Let's just focus on getting safely to the castle for now, eh? I think once you talk to Edgar some of your questions will be answered."

The name finally caught her attention. "Edgar...King Edgar, of...Figaro?" Her mind was rapidly piecing together bits of their previous conversations with what fragments of general knowledge she had left to her on the subject. Of the latter, there wasn't much; of course everyone knew that Figaro was allied to the Empire, and had been for many decades. The Empire relied on the technological products it generated, and Figaro relied on the Empire's business. It was whispered that the relationship had begun to strain, however, not too long before King Edwin died – abruptly – and Gestahl began gathering truly unprecedented political power. As for where that relationship stood at the present, she didn't know. Politics had never been her forte – that had been the realm of someone else...

_Wait. Who? _She grabbed at the thought, desperately, but it dissolved like smoke in the wind.

Locke was talking, answering her earlier unspoken question. "Figaro and the Empire are allies, so don't worry about Ed...you won't have to be afraid of him hurting you like those Narshite police did. You might want to borrow a nun's habit, though, and lock your bedroom door at night." He smiled brightly.

Thrown off-kilter by the last statement, she momentarily faltered, but quickly regained her train of thought. With Locke, one had to sift through his topics and choose the best one to pursue. "I don't understand. I thought we were running away from the Empire _because_ they're trying to hurt me. And you hate them."

He seemed to choose his next words carefully. "It's possible to be in the Empire but not of it. Like you. I can't explain now, but it'll become clear in time." His hands moved from their light grip on the chocobo's neck to rest gently on both of hers. She was struck again by his closeness, his warmth...but this time it didn't feel quite so strange or uncomfortable. Maybe she was getting used to this whole personal relations business after all. "Trust me, Terra. I won't let anything hurt you. I swear it by my life, okay?"

On the other hand, maybe not. She didn't know how to react to the dead seriousness in his voice, the startling intimacy of his promises. For lack of a better reaction she mutely nodded, then stared down at her hands.

Their chocobo made good time, even as encumbered as it was. Terra began calling him Albert, which the bird seemed to take pride in until Locke heard and started snickering uncontrollably, in which instance Albert turned mid-stride to deliver a solid peck to his leg. They rode all day, stopping only occasionally to stretch and dine on field rations from the packs. Spring was too new to produce much in the way of forest foraging, but Terra found herself ripping open and consuming jerky and tasteless protein bars with the practiced ease of a veteran. She idly wondered how often she'd relied on these things in the past.

Slowly the light changed and the sun-dappled forest floor became blotted with long shadows. The stark rocks and hardy trees had eased into soft firs and lush meadows dotted with wildflowers as they neared the lower elevations. The snow lessened, manifesting itself mostly in shade-encased canyons now or old wind caches, where weeks of winter fury had collected it into enormous drifts, slowly melting. The air was sweet with promised warmth, and Terra felt her anxiety over being followed begin to drift away with the breeze. Even Albert seemed to be enjoying himself, snapping at butterflies and occasionally flapping his wings violently in a sort of impromptu dance of deep satisfaction. Terra guessed this was as free as he had ever been.

A tiny part of her being told her it was as free as she had ever been, too.

xxxxxx

At nightfall they made camp in a small depression near the end of a ridge, hidden away both by the slightly higher ground that encircled it, and a little copse of trees that kept them sheltered from the cold nighttime winds. Albert, tethered nearby, seemed content enough, munching on the long greens that swayed gently in the adjoining meadow. Locke set up two tiny tents, side by side, using only a couple of stakes to pin down the corners, with nylon cord knotted between a pair of trees to form ridges for the roofs. Without skipping a beat, he pulled out a small, cleverly-designed folding shovel and dug a small pit for their fire – to keep unwanted eyes from catching sight of the flames, he explained, adding that the gusting wind would dissipate any smoke that escaped the tree canopy. It was very obvious that he had done this kind of thing many times before. Terra couldn't help but wonder just exactly what his role in the Returners involved.

That night they dined on rehydrated stew and herbal tea in order to keep their core temperatures up. Locke apologized profusely for the meager fare, vowing that he'd find them something better once they had created a more comfortable gap between them and any possible pursuers. Terra didn't mind. The stew warmed her belly and the deep glow of the flames soothed her. She listened intently to the sound of wind rushing through pines, relishing in the way a gust would catch the stragglers on the edges, setting them off in whispers, in turn rousing the thicker clumps toward the middle, until the entire wood was a swell of pine conversation – but none of them ever speaking over that low whisper. Nothing about this setting of cheery fire and comfortable companionship and soothing nighttime wood noises felt familiar to her. But somehow it was more like home than anything else she could imagine.

She had just settled down to brush some of the grit out of her hair and arrange her sleeping bag when Locke emerged from the darkness nearby. There hadn't been so much as a snapping stick to herald his coming; the man moved like black silk.

"C'mere, Terr. I've got something to show you." Eyes bright, he held out his hand.

Gamely, she took it, and they started west through the blackened wood. She was quite certain her ankle would be broken in about six places right now if he hadn't been there to guide her. Soon enough they emerged from the little copse, though. Terra halted at the sight of the silvery moonlight playing off the field of tall meadow grasses. That peculiar feeling of contentedness and safety welled up inside her once again.

"You like that moon, eh?" He halted next to her, not letting go of her hand. The man carried such an easy familiarity about him, his mannerisms and gestures and casual touches all working together to put a person immediately at ease. If she had tried to pull half the stunts he did, people would ask her if she was feeling well, or hurry off to barricade their children behind locked doors.

Unsurprisingly, Locke was still talking. "They call that the Mother's Moon, ya know. They say the three Goddesses had another sister, a younger one. But one day she fell in love with a mortal man. That's always their downfall, ya know, these creatures of higher realms and their fascination with us puny mortals." He turned to wink at her, moonlight glinting off his eyes. "But I guess this man was a particularly studly fellow, all strong and heroic and a sappy romantic ta boot. Well, they fell for each other good and hard, and of course ran off to get married against the strict orders of her sisters.

'As you can imagine, they weren't too happy with this. I mean, c'mon, don't you just _hate_ it when little sisters won't listen?" His face was full of mock disgust. "Anyhow, to wrap up what really just boils down to a long and depressing story, she was pregnant with their first child when her sisters found her. Branding the child an abomination, they killed the man and banished their sister and her unborn child to the heavens, where they became part of the moon. Now she shows up there once a month, just before it turns full, her baby forever unborn, mourning for eternity." His voice trailed off theatrically.

Terra stared at him, bewildered. "Locke, that's just a waxing gibbous. It indicates the portion we see lit by the sun relative to where the moon sits in its orbit around us. Besides, _gibbous _derives from the word _humpbacked. _Which I don't think has a lot to do with pregnancy."

He gazed at her, face devoid of expression. Abruptly he resumed pulling her through the meadow. "_Anyhow_. That's not even what I brought you out here to see." They brushed through the grass for several minutes in silence.

"You've gotta admit those goddesses weren't the nicest of gals, though," he suddenly piped.

"Locke –"

"I mean, going around killing people and banishing their sister to the moon. And then they ended up getting in some ridiculous spat anyway that ended up decimating half the world, according to Gram. Well!" he exclaimed, before she could comment. "Here we are! Wanted to show you what we'll be crossing tomorrow." Unexpectedly, they had reached the end of the ridge and she now found herself looking down into an open, darkened valley. Unsure of what she was supposed to be seeing, her eyes flit around for something to focus on. Then he drew her closer, one warm hand against the small of her back, and pointed to a spot just below where the earth met the sky. It was quite far away, but sprang out from among its surroundings under the moonlight – a flat, silver plane, swallowing the horizon like the sea.

But it wasn't the sea. "Figaro Desert," Locke explained. "Don't ask me why Ed's noble ancestors decided to set up shop in that old wasteland, but the desert _does_ have a certain beauty to it, once you learn how to see it."

Even though she knew the glow was only the result of its high albedo, Terra had to admit the desert sands shining in the moonlight were breathtaking. She could see why Locke had wanted to show it to her. "We'll be crossing that whole thing tomorrow?"

He laughed, though not condescendingly. "I wish. Nah, it'll take us the whole day just to get there, and then a couple more to reach the castle itself. Castle Figarians are some of the politest and most hospitable people you'll ever meet – they've gotta be, because all their guests are so disgruntled and surly by the time they finally get there."

"Why don't they relocate somewhere closer? So that people don't have to travel so far?"

The smallest twitch crossed his face at her mention of "relocate," but it was gone so quickly she thought she may have imagined it after all. "Because at the same time, it's a distinct political advantage," he explained. "Throws your opponents off balance. Puts them at your mercy. The railway actually forks off toward the west near here, passing about thirty miles or so south of the kingdom. So most people aren't going to do what we'll be doing."

He plopped down suddenly in the tall grass, cross-legged. "But there's still that thirty mile interim across the dunes that the nobles hate. Ed sends out a nice motorized carriage for the people he wants to impress, for the ones he wants on his side. For the superfluous sycophants and self-serving, the spies that he can't use to his advantage, and sometimes even the dangerous, it's the old state car for them, the one with the questionable air conditioner and weak suspension. But never enough that it seems deliberate. It's all about the game, the message you wanna send, the tone you wanna set for your meeting."

Terra settled herself carefully onto the ground next to him, pulling her jacket tighter against the increasing nighttime chill. Tiny questions that had been pawing at her all day finally coalesced into one. "How does someone like you come to know a king? And so much about politics?" It was high time she began digging into the motives of this man she so blindly followed.

"Hey!" He looked affronted. "What do you mean, 'someone like me'? You're saying I'm not handsome or charming enough to get in with the nobleman's playboy club?"

She looked pointedly at his scuffed leather boots, then considered the threadbare trousers, patched jacket, and the bright trinkets haphazardly placed about his person. Her eyes moved to his windblown hair, temporarily free of its bandana, the two days' growth of stubble dirtying his face, and a thin pale scar that began under one ear and ran for several inches down his jaw. "No," she declared.

He clutched at his heart dramatically, face filled with anguish. "Ow," he moaned. "Owwww. Why, Terra, whyyy?" Just as suddenly, he was all smiles again. "It's a long story. Ya really wanna hear it?"

The man made her feel like she suffered from chronic whiplash. But she nodded.

So Locke told her all about how he had been born in Narshe but barely remembered anything about it because when he was only four, his father decided to haul their family to the other side of the world so that he could join the military in Vector. "My da was an idealist," Locke explained. "Revolutionary, really, for a Narshite. They hate change up there. If Gramps was a coal miner, well you'd bloody well better be one too, unless you were clever enough to upgrade to a mechanic or electrician. Anyway, one day on his way to the mines old Da saw a recruiting poster for the Imperial Air Force tacked to some shopfront. Decided right then and there that he was going to join the military and become a pilot.

' 'Course, that's easier said than done. Turns out you gotta have a fancy education for a pilot slot, along with perfect eyesight. The old man had neither, so he decided he'd settle on a ground maintenance position instead. At least that way he'd still get to work around the things. Well, once they've got you the recruiters don't much care anymore about the dreams of a poor, naïve coal miner. Set him up as an infantryman on the front lines, straight away. He was killed on his first field mission. Shot by a malcontent when his unit was sent to stamp out the First Marandan Rebellion."

A strange, almost bitter smile ghosted his lips. Terra wasn't sure which part had upset him. His father's death? The Empire sending him out to die? Or...was it the manner in which the Empire dealt with rebellion, the disproportionate brutality it unleashed on civilians? The fact that his father was killed in behalf of a raid that never should have occurred?

These considerations crept unexpectedly from the shadows to the forefront of her mind. She realized Locke's story was unearthing other thoughts, minor remembrances of her own, personal knowledge of the Empire lying dormant beneath a blanket of metaphorical ash. These had been present even after the amnesia, but she had been subconsciously ignoring them in light of more pressing matters. They were vague things – awareness of the requirements for piloting positions, comprehension of military rank structure and general protocol, cognizance of certain in-house controversies. But no memories of people, or her own role in it all. Her hold on even this haphazard collection of information was tenuous – the knowledge drifted and scattered like fireflies in the black of night.

Locke was continuing. "Well, Ma was newly pregnant when we heard the news. Just about ruined her. Vector didn't have much to offer a poverty-stricken widow and her small child. Still doesn't. She died in childbirth in our little hovel in the slums, with only the old woman from the candle shop to help her. My little brother never even took a breath. As for me, I ran." His eyes were distant and strange, as if he hadn't spoken on the subject in many years and was only now recalling the terror he must have felt, a small child witnessing ghastly pain and death. "I was only six. But here's a thing about Vector – it's got a whole layer of civilization to it you would never even dream existed from your comfortable office job in the Empire or your swanky shop on Front Street. The underworlders, the gutter rats, they called them – street gangs made up of pickpockets and thieves and any unsavory profession you could dream of – and mostly kids.

'It was those buggers that found me wandering through the alleys, lost and crying, that night. They were only a couple of years older than me, but they took me in, found me a place to sleep, gave me a profession. Most of all, they gave me a new family. I lost a mother and brother but gained a dozen more that night." Now he flopped down on his back entirely and gazed up at the stars, a fond smile of remembrance hovering on his lips.

"And that's where you learned to be a thief?" she guessed.

The smoldering glare he brought to bear on her seemed more reflexive than anything, as a moment later he recalled his admission from the train and relaxed. "Sure was," he professed. "Learned thieving and sneaking and pillaging and any number of horribly immoral acts!" The declaration didn't seem to bother him in the least – in fact, it obviously made him quite cheerful. "But like I said," he hastily amended, "I don't do that anymore."

Terra leaned back carefully on her elbows, peering up into the star-spangled blackness alongside him. She wondered what shapes he saw in the scattered pinpricks of light. Connecting the stars seemed to be a fairly consistent – if not bafflingly useless – thing that people did. "So you grew up there, in Vector?"

Locke grinned. "Well, that's where Gram comes in. She was Ma's mother, and didn't much approve of my da dragging us halfway around the world for a dream. When she heard what happened, she went charging across two continents and an ocean to hunt me down. Gram was a spitfire like you've never laid eyes on." His own eyes glittered with barely-repressed mirth, and...something else. Stronger than affection. Was that what they called love? "Took a while for her to dredge me up, and just about every connection she had. But find me she did! I was ten years old by then and as wild as a Veldt cat. I still don't know how she did it, but somehow she managed to drag me back to her little house in Kohlingen, clean me up, and start me on a proper education.

'Anyway, you're probably wondering where Edgar comes into play in all of this," he said, pulling up several strands of grass and twisting them together in the beginnings of a weave.

In fact, she _had_ been wondering. Locke tended toward the wordy side of things. He continued. "Well, back in her younger days, Gram was one of King Edwin's most honored ambassadors, and a good friend, too. Edwin was Edgar and Sabin's father, by the way. If it had been like back in old times, before Figaro started electing most of its officials, she would have been royalty. Which would have made me royalty too. I'm basically like a long-lost prince," he crowed, grinning at her ridiculously.

"A hedge knight at best," she said, impassively. He frowned. She ignored him. "Who's Sabin?"

He blinked. "Oh...yeah. Got a little ahead of myself there. Sabin's Ed's twin brother, but he's not around anymore. We're pretty sure he's still alive, but...Anyway, they don't talk about him much, so if you could do me a huge favor and keep mum for me, I'd appreciate it greatly."

"Of course," she agreed, though it all seemed very strange to her. If this Sabin wasn't dead, where was he? Why would he keep away from his twin? Did she have a brother or sister somewhere out there, looking for her? Or did her family hear about some of the things she'd done – she _must_ have done – and quit speaking of her, as well? For some reason, the thought made her stomach clench painfully. Reflexively, she drew her knees up to her chest.

"Hey," Locke said, propping himself up and placing a hand on her shoulder in concern. "Are you cold?"

"No," she tried to assert, even though she really was. Locke shed his ragged jacket and draped it over her anyway, of course, leaving himself nothing but a thin, short-sleeved shirt to block the cold mountain air. Terra wondered, frankly, how he had ever managed to survive this long. She supposed he adopted every stray cat and homeless orphan he found in the gutter, as well.

They sat in silence for a moment as the wind stirred the tall grasses around them, listening to hundreds of crickets croon their refrain across the moonlit meadows. Then Locke returned to the grass weave and resumed his story. "Like I was saying. Gram was still great friends with the Figaros, and stuck around quite a bit as Edwin's personal councilor, even though she was officially retired. After she got me back, she saw it as a great opportunity to get me civilized. And to introduce Edgar and Sabin to a taste of the outside world too, I guess. Edwin was always big about that – about mixing with his citizens. It's what the Queen did, before she died. Anyway! The three of us became as tight as a pack of lobos. We spent months at a time together. We were like brothers." He smiled, once again lost in a pleasant land of memories. It was a luxury Terra was beginning to envy.

"What about the rest of the time? In Kohlingen?"

Unexpectedly, his smile faded. He shrugged and tried to sound dismissive. "They readily claimed Gram as one of their own, even though she spent most of her time traipsing around the country – an activity most Kohlingese heartily disapprove of." He smiled wryly. "It didn't hurt that she was so distinguished and respectable, either.

'Me? Well." He fidgeted. "It's not like I had no friends there. Our neighbor's daughter, she became my best friend right off. And a few years later...well."

Terra frowned. Locke's perpetual carefree cheer had given way to uncertainty, even vulnerability. "Anyhow, I only got to spend a couple of years with Gram, but it felt like my whole life. She taught me so much. She died, you know. When I was seventeen. Peacefully, of old age." He seemed to abruptly recognize how fragmented his story had become, and snapped his mouth shut.

Terra peered at him, head tilted, trying hard to decode his sudden state of disquiet. No inspiration was immediately forthcoming. In fact, she wasn't quite sure why she even bothered; people and their erratic emotional states were just as big a puzzle to her right now as they had been when she woke up. Maybe as they'd always been. But his stories filled an empty void in her own heart – for this short time, his loving grandmother had become her own, his friends hers. So she persisted. "Is that when you joined the Returners?"

"Nope. A year or two before that, Edwin suddenly bit it. Got 'sick,' even though he was in prime physical condition and there was no discernible cause." Locke's face had clouded even more, and this time a certain deeply ingrained fury accompanied it. "The kingdom was in a bad state for a while, and to make matters worse, Sabin disappeared right around that time. Gram stuck around to help Edgar and his councilors the best she could in his premature transition to king.

'In the meantime, I had gotten a job with a wandering tradesman. Our work took us all over the continent, but it was back in Narshe where I first met Arvis. How's this for a full circle: turns out he'd known my folks, all those ages ago. Well, he hired me on to start carrying messages for him. They were little things, at first, but eventually he came to trust me with bigger stuff, and eventually his secrets. And _that's_ how I was slowly inducted into the Returners." He finished his story with a grand flourish of his arms.

"So...that's the reason you actually joined? Out of chance? Because it just happened that way?" Somehow that didn't seem to match the person she had come to know.

"No," he admitted. "That wasn't the reason." But he didn't continue; just stared off into the west, as though he were trying to see beyond the miles.

When he spoke again, several minutes later, his voice was unexpectedly earnest, eyes intent on hers. "Terra, if you ever decide to join the Returners, let it be for your own reasons, okay? Don't let them pressure you into it."

She started. If _she_ joined the Returners? The thought had never so much as crossed her mind; but then again, she hadn't thought much about her future at all lately. Based on everything Locke and Arvis had told her and the things she had figured out on her own, she was technically still a citizen of the Empire. Where had this come from? And what was his purpose in bringing it up? Was it because somebody had pressured _him_ in the past, and he wanted to caution her away from repeating his mistake, in case she was ever presented the option? She didn't think so; somehow the warning had felt more immediate. In that case, what exactly did Locke know? Was he expecting something to happen? Her thoughts began to swirl; irritably, she created a mental trap door, shoved them all inside, and slammed it closed.

Hesitantly, she tried one more question. Something completely disconnected from the subject of her future. "After you started working for Arvis...did you move back to Narshe?" It occurred to her how very strange it would be to return to one's childhood home, so many years later and so very changed.

He smiled at her. "Oh, no. When I wasn't delivering messages, I was dividing my time between Figaro and Kohlingen. For a few years, anyway. A lot of my work took me near Figaro anyhow."

Before she could wonder about his reasons behind returning – even after his grandmother's death – to Kohlingen, obviously an unwelcoming place for him, he turned to her abruptly. He had hooked the ends of his grass weave together, turning it into a crown. Positioning it on her head, he leaned back to eye her critically. "You look pretty as a spring rain," he declared. "And it's almost the same shade as your hair."

Terra reached up a tentative hand to touch the twisted grass strands, trying to ignore the gritty, tangled mass her hair had become and hoping the moonlight washed out the flustered confusion on her face. The man had an irritating talent for unhinging her. "We should get back to camp."

"Right you are," he agreed, springing to his feet and offering her a hand up. Exhaustion was settling in quickly for them both. She didn't think Locke had even slept more than an hour or two since she had met him, only a few short days before. She, on the other hand, had spent a large part of their time together either sleeping or unconscious. "Will we be safe here tonight?"

"Count on it," he assured her. "There aren't too many wild animals around these parts; we're too close to civilization. I'll keep watch for a while, and then Albert'll tap in for me. He could claw the eyes out of a woolly mammoth if need be."

And Terra did feel safe. All her questions, all her doubts – none of these seemed to matter as much as she gazed, later that night, at the darkened silhouette of her roguish companion reclining next to his pit fire, gazing fathomlessly into the dying flames, and the enormous yellow bird huddled nearby, head buried in its wing.

Just before crawling into her sleeping bag, Terra removed Locke's grass crown and looked at it. It was a frivolous thing, and would quickly shrivel up and die.

Nevertheless, she tucked it safely into her pack.


	2. Chapter 1, Part II

They spent the bulk of the next morning riding, their path taking them inexorably downward. There was no sign of their supposed pursuers, and the day was all the more beautiful for it. Spring bloomed before them in a matter of hours rather than days; as the elevation dropped, the deciduous trees came to life with bright green buds, delicate blossoms, and a world of chattering birds. Albert occasionally barked out a call of his own, as if in acknowledgment of his tiny, frenetic cousins.

More striking, though, was the shift in the air. Terra was able to peel herself out of her jacket for the first time in days, and gloried in the feel of the newly warming sunshine on her bare arms. Even the smell had changed, from cold and piney to something hinting at baked earth. By the time they reached the foothills, the tall, graceful pines had slouched into scrubby bushes and stunted juniper. Short-lived but hardy purple and yellow flowers blanketed the hills, and the riot of colors displayed previously in the wildflower meadows now congregated into bold, organized stripes on rocky hillsides – telling the story of a million years of the area's history, if one knew how to read it. Locke did, and spent quite some time regaling her on geological eras and ancient floodplains. Most of his geography lessons must have occurred during his time at Figaro, she deduced. It didn't seem likely that the Empire would have included much of the subject in her own education. Nor would anyone, for that matter.

Near lunchtime, Locke pulled them to a halt in a clump of ponderosas. Dismounting, he untied the packs and began rummaging around, discarding the occasional camping tool onto the sharp, crackling floor of pinecones and long slender needles. At last, with a muffled but triumphant noise of victory, he emerged with a neatly folded but unremarkable bundle of white linen.

"You really packed everything, didn't you," she stated, eyeing the ring of backpack fodder.

"Everything but the kitchen sink," he declared proudly.

She stared at him, face blank. "Kitchen sink?"

"Never mind. Put it on, luv," he told her, thrusting the material toward her. "I know we've only just gotten reacquainted with spring, but we're going to have to wear these things till we get to the castle. They look stifling, but they're actually surprisingly comfortable, I promise. They're built for insane temperatures, you know."

Eyebrow raised, she took the proffered bundle and shook out the folds. It appeared to be a full-length robe, lightweight, complete with a hood and thin veil, which was attached so that it covered only the bottom half of the face. A second long, white strip of cloth fell from the folds into the scattered needles – a head scarf, perhaps. "We'll be wearing these in order to stay cool?"

"Actually, we'll be wearing those to disappear. When they didn't find you on that train, those troops' next move would be to scour the desert border towns. With these, we'll be just another badawi trader coming into town for the market."

"Badawi?"

"It's a very old word; means 'those in the desert.' They divide themselves up into tribes, and seem to thrive living off the dunes. They and Figaro share a common ancestry somewhere up the line."

"More long-lost princes?"

"Hey! How come they get to be princes and I'm only a hedge knight?" His glower was full of mock hurt.

She ignored him and began climbing into the long white robes. Once donned, she was surprised to realize how airy and cool they were. Locke showed her how to wrap the scarf around her head so that only her face peered out, hiding her rather noticeable hair, then wind the excess loosely around her neck. "Once we get into town, we'll want to wear the hood and veil, too," he explained. "We'll just be stopping in for a quick moment to restock our food and water. Out in the desert proper it'll keep most of the sand out of your eyes and your throat from drying up if it's hot and windy. We'll probably be okay, though; it's still early enough in the year that the truly unlivable temperatures haven't set in yet. If this were the summer, we'd be traveling at night and sleeping during the day, but desert spring is actually quite lovely."

Locke continued to ramble as they repacked the supplies, looking like some mysterious foreign stranger in his own white linen. Pulling out the last of the jerky and dried fruit, they mounted Albert and set off toward the west.

By the time they reached the little border town, roughly an hour later, Terra was beginning to sweat from the heat of the man pressed against her back. The ambient temperature had increased noticeably. The town itself, crouched in a minor valley between several of the low rocky hills, was composed primarily of white stucco. Squat, blocky buildings huddled and melded together, appearing almost as if they had been carved from the pale bedrock itself. Yet graceful arches glided over alleyways and streets, imbuing the scene with a strange splash of elegance, while striped canopies and the occasional brightly-colored banner fluttered from windows and balconies. Terra stared openly. It seemed as though such a conglomeration could only be described as ugly, but to her, it was one of the most exotically beautiful things she could remember having ever seen. It was beginning to become clear, in a deep but slowly emerging part of her subconscious, that her life in the Empire hadn't involved much of the outside world.

Locke spurred Albert down the main street, steering him carefully with his knees. The thoroughfare was choked with people, from the white-robed desert nomads they currently impersonated to citizens garbed in the common style of Figaro. All bustled about row after row of market stalls, bartering for everything from lemons to ammunition, while children ran amok among their legs. Most of the nomads rode chocobos, like themselves. These birds, Terra noticed, were much leaner, their coloring varying from pure white to pale yellow, from beige to black to rusty red – all the tones of the desert wrapped up in a couple of oversized birds. Terra found herself relieved that Alfred wasn't one of those extravagantly-colored steeds typically favored of the nobility, even if his large, muscled physique set him apart otherwise. The lord they'd stolen him from must have boasted only minor wealth and holdings.

"Did we pick a great time to blend in, or what?" Locke murmured in her ear. "Looks like it's market day. All the traders within a hundred miles will be in town." Then, following the line of her gaze, he explained, "The desert people breed chocobos. National pastime, it is. Sometimes Edgar hosts races as a kind of nod to their mutual heritage. Then he immediately loses a fortune on terribly-placed bets. For a man that plays such a keen hand in world politics, he sure blunders at bird betting." He snickered to himself.

They turned down the next alley and the crowds melted away, becoming only a din of voices, laughter, and jangling bells in the distance. The adobe walls pressed close and tall here, and Terra couldn't help but feel as if they had entered some other world – more earthy and rough. Old yellowing flyers plastered the alley walls, only partially hiding the embedded grime beneath. One of the leaflets, obviously newer than the rest, caught her eye. It was a wanted poster, depicting two illustrations of a man's face. The first portrayed its subject as fair-haired and bearded, the second as clean-shaven. Both sets of features held a kind of dimensionless asymmetry, as if the artist had been unsure of what end result he was reaching for. Even so, there was a certain familiarity to that face. Terra squinted and leaned in closer.

A gloved hand reached around her to snatch the poster off the wall. Locke glanced at it and huffed in indignation. "That's _treasure hunter_, you scum-sucking Imperials. And I am _much_ more handsome than that."

Terra retrieved the slightly crumpled paper from his grip and examined the smaller font toward the bottom, which highlighted the nefarious deeds (a.k.a. Crimes Against His Excellency Gestahl and His Glorious Empire) of one thief, spy, and assassin known only as "Locke." Apparently the latter two accusations didn't concern the felon behind her in the least.

She turned to gaze at him, eyebrow raised. "Really, Locke?"

"What?" His look suggested nothing but bewildered innocence. Such an expression couldn't survive long on a man like him, though, and died painfully before it even had a chance to live. He shrugged then, and had the grace to at least look embarrassed. "Well, you knew I was a member of the Returners."

"Apparently a rather active one."

"Also the flyer is being a bit melodramatic. You borrow some blueprints, maybe a classified file or two, and suddenly everyone and their second cousin is calling you a thief. Really, it's all part o' the game of war. Not like Gestahl's cronies haven't ever tried the same. I stress _tried_." There was a definite unrepentant smirk to his voice.

"I was mostly referring to the _spy_ and _assassin_ features. Though you seem to have covered the spy part nicely."

"Oh, that. Well, you know how people will carry on. _Assassin _is definitely a bit over the top. The good news is, they _still_ can't get my picture right _or_ my full name, even after all these years." The man practically oozed smug satisfaction. "Though they didn't haveta make my eyes so squinty and devious-looking. Seriously. Wait, do I really have a line in my forehead like that?" Concerned, he leaned forward to peer at his reflection in a window and rubbed vigorously at the skin between his eyes.

Terra wasn't sure if she should be relieved or highly alarmed that her fate rested in this man's leather-clad hands.

As they trotted on, he casually tore the poster into unrecognizable pieces. "Disguised or not, I'd still rather not spend my time here playing hide-and-seek with every cheap and bad-smelling bounty hunter in the desert." He made "bounty hunter" sound like a filthy phrase. She couldn't help but wonder how many degrees of separation really lay between a bounty and treasure hunter, but prudently left such thoughts unvoiced.

Eventually they came to a halt in front of a small open cave of a shop, marked only by a plank of wood bearing crude depictions of a sandwich and what looked like some sort of exotic fruit. Securing Albert to a nearby hitching post, Locke helped Terra down and they entered.

She discovered right away that the sign had been quite straightforward – the shop was arrayed in the entire fruit continuum, and in the corner, behind a glass counter, a middle-aged balding man appeared to be selling sandwiches. Locke proceeded to stock them up on bread and an array of cheeses, which he wrapped carefully in a couple of (what she hoped were clean) bandanas. Then he bought them each a couple of sandwiches, rounding out their order with several rather dubious-looking items that he called "dragon fruit." Arms loaded full of these fresh new delicacies, they reemerged onto the dusty street. Locke steered Terra to a bench and sat her down.

"I've gotta make one more stop, right there next to the sandwich shop," he told her. "Why don't you stay here and enjoy your lunch in the meantime. I promise I won't be gone long, and I'll be right in shouting distance if you need me. Okay?" He hovered indecisively for a moment, clearly anxious about leaving her alone.

"If a threatening individual approaches, I will kill him with my mind," she assured him.

Locke blinked uncertainly and Terra rolled her eyes. Maybe he thought she really _could_ deliver psychokinetic death. The Empire had obviously kept her hidden away for _some_ reason, after all, and she doubted it was for a hidden talent in cross stitching. Once again, she got the distinct feeling that there was something he wasn't telling her.

More or less convinced of her safety, he disappeared through the shop door, its entrance bell clanging cheerily. Terra bit into her sandwich, then devoured it greedily. She hadn't realized how starved for fresh, warm food she was. They had been on the run for only a handful of days, but the physical and emotional stresses had taken their toll.

She did, however, save the last bite for Albert, tossing it at his enormous clawed feet. His head struck like a snake as he gobbled it up. Suddenly he froze, and with a sort of squashed expression that Terra hadn't realized chocobo beaks were capable of making, he spit it back out. Turning a baleful glare in her direction, he warked reproachfully.

"Oh, that's right. No meat. I'm sorry. We'll keep playing your game for now, but don't think I don't know how you one day plan to eat Locke for second breakfast."

Albert eyed her, then turned away with a haughty sniff. A stampede of children pounded past, kicking up dust as they madly pursued an old, scuffed leather ball. Albert perked up, eyes intent and head cocked, neck feathers twitching as if to join in the game himself. Or to catch himself an easy meal of street urchin. She really wouldn't put it past him.

Terra bit at a nail. Then she toed a pile of dirt, coating the scuffed leather of her boot in a pale film of dust. Then she sighed. What on earth was Locke _doing?_

Well, no reason why she couldn't find out. Marching across the street, she pressed her face against the display glass. It took her a moment to make out his form among the shop's racks of brightly-colored fabrics and tapestries, but eventually she found him, conversing in a far corner with a gray-haired woman. They didn't seem to be talking about fabric at all, unless Locke possessed some intense hidden passion for the subject. Because otherwise there would be no reason for the two of them to look so serious. But before she could deduce more, they turned and disappeared into a back room.

She returned to her bench, dodging another pack of hollering children. Just as she had begun on the seemingly futile task of cracking open the aesthetic mess that was the dragon fruit, Terra suddenly realized she was no longer alone. Slowly, chest tight, she turned to the now-occupied space beside her to see –

...Oh. Well, a tiny waif of a girl. Not a menacing member of Imperial Intel with their black suits and barely concealed pistols. Terra blinked. "Um."

She realized then that she had no idea how to talk to children. In fact, this one quite frightened her, with her frank, curious eyes, dirty face, and expectant gaze. She thought maybe she'd prefer the dark and hulking intel agent.

However, it turned out that one didn't, after all, need to think of small talk in the presence of children. "Why are your eyebrows green?" the small thing asked.

Startled, Terra's hand flew to her face. Though her eyebrows _did_ carry a hint of green, the hairs were pale and fine enough to be unnoticeable at first glance. Even so, she had carefully wrapped her scarf low around her forehead as a precaution. Apparently it had ridden up sometime in the last little while. "I, uh...I ate too much dragon fruit," was the only thing she could think to say, staring dubiously at the garish-looking thing in her hand.

The little girl gasped, eyes alight. "I love dragon fruit! I already eat three every day! If I ate four, would my eyebrows turn green too?"

"Um, more like fourteen," Terra replied, even as she internally cringed at how unhappy some mother was going to be in the wake of one little girl plus fourteen dragon fruits. Even Albert whipped his head around to stare at her reprovingly. Terra glared at him. Judge her, would he? She chucked the ugly thing, gouged and scratched but still denying her the fruit inside, straight at his head. Without batting an eye he casually snapped it from the air, enormous beak crushing through the shell easily. Looking smug, he munched it down, juice and seeds dripping from his beak.

Terra glowered, but the girl bounced in delight. "Is that your 'bo? My big brother has one. He named it Killer Death Fang and is going to take it to the races this year!"

"Mmm," Terra replied uncertainly, but the girl plowed on, regaling her with accounts of Killer Death Fang's new leather saddle and all of his favorite foods and speaking of food, one time her big brother tricked her into eating dog food, convincing her it was delicious, but secretly she really did like it but couldn't tell any of her friends because they would make fun of her, and would Terra like to know all of her best friends' names? they were Wilhelmine and Frederick...but oh wait, Frederick threw a dirt clod at her this morning so they weren't friends right now, and what were Terra's best friends' names? And how old was she? She must be at least twelve, the girl declared, eyes wide at the imagined weight of maturity associated with such an unbelievably lofty age.

Terra merely squeaked in reply, but the girl didn't seem to mind. Somewhere in the barrage of high-pitched chatter and her own monosyllabic replies, she began to relax. This strange creature wasn't here to judge her, or expect her to say or do the mysterious "right thing." This little girl seemed to like her for who she was, and she'd barely even known her for three minutes. Were all children this way? Did they all approach the world with such frankness, sincerity, and lack of subterfuge?

The girl pulled from her thin belt a pair of rag dolls, one with long yellow string sprouting from its head and sporting a pink dress. She hesitated a moment, then handed it to Terra reverently.

"This is Princess Pansy," she declared. "She's my best friend in the whole world, but I'll let you play with her, because I like you a lot. I'll play with King Edgar."

Terra raised an eyebrow at the name, and the little girl explained, "My mama says King Edgar – the real one, I mean – is the most handsome ruler Figaro has had in a _hundred _years! She saw him once in a parade. That was before I was born, though. Wilhelmine says she's going to marry him when she grows up, but _I _want to be an adventurer. Being married sounds boring."

The girl knelt in the dust and began walking King Edgar around on the bench, making him exclaim at various sights in a high-pitched-imitating-manly voice. Terra joined in with the blond-haired doll – haltingly, at first, but eventually she caught on. King Edgar asked Princess Pansy to the ball, his pillowy body bending in a gallant bow. Princess Pansy eyed him and asked suspiciously what a _ball_ was. King Edgar explained that it was an event where everyone puts on pretty clothes and then probably forms two teams and kicks a ball around and tries to get it into each others' goals, and then there are pastries afterward (he thought). Princess Pansy noted that while this could be fun, exploring was better. King Edgar enthusiastically agreed and soon the two were hopping jerkily down the dirt alley, exclaiming at all the sights and sounds, including a giant chocobo they happened upon and proceeded to climb.

It was a grand adventure for the two dolls, and Terra was startled to discover the natural smile pulling at the muscles of her face. The little girl's eyes were alight, her face flushed and dirty. Albert stood stiffly and with forced dignity, doing his best to pretend there weren't actually two stuffed rag dolls perched on his head.

"I like you," the little girl finally declared, grabbing the dolls and cradling them in her arms. "You must be a really good mama."

Terra blushed. She suddenly realized she hadn't even asked the girl's name, and took a breath to do so. But the girl, already distracted, was reaching into her belt for a third toy.

"Now you be Jojo! He's Princess Pansy's best friend and he wants to come play, too."

Terra looked down at the new doll in her hand. It was of higher quality and more detailed than the ragged King and Princess, probably a gift from some relative with a bit more wealth to blow. Terra could see why it wasn't as favored, though. It was strange – face too pale, lips too bright, gaping too wide, painted makeup patterning its face. Terra thought its expression was supposed to reflect cheer, but to her, it looked eerie and sinister. Why? This was something that was supposed to make kids happy. They called it a...a..

Clown.

The world focused into a point: the painted face. The sounds around her muffled, blurred into a low buzz. All she could see was that face. The buzzing rose to insane laughter, the laughter she had remembered on the train, that had haunted her nightmares only to vanish with the rising sun.

And Terra remembered. She remembered feelings of suffocation, panic, cold metal against her temples, somehow reaching _inside_ her head and stripping away her soul. She felt the despair seep into her heart, gathering energy, growing into an unborn scream that rose up her ribcage and lodged in her throat, radiated back through her arms and out her fingertips –

She blinked, and the sights and sounds of the dusty alley snapped back into focus. Smoke curled from her fingers, and the clown doll was nothing but a pile ashes in her hand. Even these were peeling away from the charred mound to follow the gentle alley breezes, one by one.

The little girl stared at the remains of her doll, mouth agape and twitching, voice gone. Eyes wide with fear, she tore off down the alley and was gone.

The frozen scream finally dislodged from Terra's throat in the form of a sob. Blindly, she began to run. Two noises followed her – Albert's alarmed crow, loud as a siren, followed by a commotion of bells as a shop door flew open. But reality had abandoned her. All she knew was to _fly away, fly away from here_ – but she couldn't fly, all she could do was stumble along on these awkward, limiting legs. Walls and people kept getting in her way, and all she could do was bump against them and reel away and stumble some more, like one of those dreams where unknown entities were chasing her and her legs had inexplicably swapped out their blood and muscle for rubber.

Eventually, of course, one of those entities caught up to her, just as they did in the dreams. A pair of powerful arms wrapped around her from behind; their owner used his and Terra's combined momentum to swing them both around against a wall, where he hit first.

Well, that had been stupid of him. A strange, disconnected calm settled over her, and Terra let herself be carried along their path of momentum. Just as her back impacted with his chest, she flung her head back into his face, hard yet with controlled precision, waiting for the telltale sound of a nose breaking. Though she was rewarded with a grunt of significant pain, there were no broken noses to be heard. Drat; she must have misjudged his height. No matter. His arms had loosened, reflexively, just for a second, and she used the reprieve to slam an elbow into his gut, followed by a backward kick to the kneecap. This time the man went down.

A very detached and calculating part of her brain brushed imaginary hands in satisfaction. The rest of it urged her back into flight. She burst forward, muscles buzzing with adrenaline.

Until a hand wrapped around her ankle. Flailing, she slammed hard into the dirt of the alley. She began to thrash wildly, her strange dispassion now obliterated by all-encompassing terror. A few of her kicks made contact, but the downed man stubbornly weathered them and somehow managed to crawl forward until his entire body draped across hers, effectively pinning her to the ground. Utterly trapped, she began to gather and weave elements, the crackling of energy warming her fingertips, converging into an idea of flame, soon to become reality...

"_Terra!"_

That was her name. Wasn't it? Her frenzied mind hesitated.

"Terra!" he gasped again. The voice was raw, but it was familiar to her. Familiar in a good way. Pain and horror had no place in the deep-seated warmth of this voice.

"Terra," he wheezed once more, his gray eyes looking into hers, muscles of his body relaxing as her own eyes began to reflect recognition.

Terra returned to herself. With a shudder, she began to cry.

Locke gathered her into his arms and, slumping onto his back, held her against him right there in the dirt. She cried until she had purged the horror of half-understood memories, the echoing sensation of losing her soul to a piece of metal, the fear inspired by that painted face. And regret and sadness over hurting the little girl, someone who had unquestioningly accepted her as a friend. Locke rubbed her back soothingly, saying nothing, until her shuddering eased and her sobs subsided into the occasional hiccup. Eventually she began to notice their surroundings again – the gritty sandiness of the alley floor; the fact that it _was_ an untraveled alley and they were _not_, thankfully, sprawled out in the middle of a main thoroughfare like a sideshow of crazies; the way Locke kept subtly trying to wipe his bleeding nose on the shoulder of his jacket. Guilt prodded her and she cringed, clinging tightly to his chest.

Sensing the train of her thoughts, he smiled wanly. "The Empire taught you some moves, did they?" He sounded unsurprised.

"Y-yes, I guess so." She hadn't even thought about it – had been acting on mechanical memory alone. But there was no question she had been trained. Perhaps that was why the Empire wanted her back so badly – was she some sort of runaway ninja assassin? Even as the thought entered her mind, she scoffed it right back out again. If she was all _that _good, Locke would probably be dead. And she wouldn't have missed his nose with her head.

"Well, that's good, though," Locke was muttering. "Be sure to save some of those moves for Edgar. You might need them."

They lay quietly a moment longer. Finally he asked the question, but gently, arms tightening around her reassuringly. "Terra, what happened?"

Taking a deep breath, she tried to explain while keeping the demons at arm's length. "I...I remembered. There was a...clown? I think I know his name too, but...he hurt me. He's the one who made me forget. And I see him in my dreams and there was cold metal and it made me lose myself. And I couldn't open the dragon fruit and I burned Princess Pansy's best friend and made the little girl run away..."

Now she was losing it again. Terra bit her lip to make herself stop. From the top of her vision she could see Locke squint in confusion, but obviously trying to steer them back into the realm of sense, he latched on to what he understood. "So it was Kefka who put that slave crown on your head, was it?"

Kefka, yes. That was the name that had popped into her head earlier, as well. So now she could put it to a face. A horrible, cruel, insane face. And an event – he must have been the one who Arvis said enslaved her and stole her mind. But that was all. She _knew_ that she knew more about him, but the memories simply wouldn't surface. At the moment, she wasn't entirely certain if she ever wanted them to.

Locke sighed heavily. "I was afraid of that." He sounded more tired and sad than she had ever heard him – except for that brief moment when she'd asked why he joined the Returners. He never had answered that question.

Before she could ask him to expound on the Kefka matter, the sound of heavy footfalls thumped past the mouth of the alleyway, just around the bend. The steps paused, then began again in double time, heading straight toward them. Alarmed, they rolled away from each other and scrambled to their feet, Locke sliding into place between her and the oncoming threat, of course. Though the effect was ruined somewhat when he yelped at the weight on his injured knee and nearly ended up back on the ground.

As it was, the creature that appeared turned out to be quite formidable after all, if you happened to be on its bad side. Albert, feathers askew and a heavy, unearthed hitching post dragging along in his wake, warked happily at the sight of them.

"Albert!" she exclaimed, and ran forward to hug him about his downy neck. Locke looked at the disenfranchised hitching post, eyebrow raised, and then shook his head and muttered something. Albert cooed and bit at her dirty robes affectionately.

"How you ever managed to win that monster to your side, I'll never know," Locke declared. "I still think he only tolerates me because you're around." The bird in question warbled something that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

"Anyway. We should get going." He glanced down the alley, just a hint of anxiety weighing at his features. "We probably didn't attract too much attention what with all the market day activity, but you never know. At least your hair didn't come loose." He reached out to adjust her scarf more securely around her face.

Terra cringed at the knowledge that she was once again endangering others not only with her existence, but her actions as well. Her guilt was compounded as she watched Locke hobble to the bird's side and begin securing the miraculously still intact packs. He was obviously still in rather a lot of pain, but doing his best to hide it. Once again, an image of a little girl's dirty, trusting face flashed through her thoughts, and, like a nightmare, morphed from trust to terror. Terra shouldered it through the mental trap door alongside the dancing madness that now had a name.

On second thought, her memories of that girl didn't deserve to be locked up in a mental attic with Kefka. Retrieving them carefully, Terra gently shut them away in a different room, one imbued with the scent of pine and the sensation of wind through her hair.

xxxxx

They trotted through the streets, hugging back alleys and forgotten shortcuts, steering around discarded piles of scrap metal and refuse. Eventually the honeycomb of pathways spit them out into the dusty outskirts of town, and soon even the town itself faded into the general blue distance of the mountains behind them. Across the miles the rocky hills and ridges flared and smoothed into red mesa plateaus, then eventually softened into the occasional rippling sand dune – hinting of the deep desert to come. Locke told stories and she listened intently, head tilted to one side; the man persisted in regaling her with the most illogical accounts of ancient heroics and scandals, dramas and heists. He pointed out desert foxes and educated her on the strange formations called "hoodoos," after they encountered an entire valley lined in the goblin-esque figures. He filled her head full of random facts (more people drown in the desert than die of thirst because of their ignorance of proper flash flood avoidance) and taught her how to peel a prickly pear. The feel of his warmth against her back had become familiar now, even welcoming.

Riding along on their second evening since leaving the town, Terra woke from a light doze to the feeling of his chest vibrating against her back as he hummed softly to himself. Though she hadn't meant to fall asleep, the sound of his voice accompanied by the soft stillness of the desert twilight creatures and the gentle shifting of the sands was so comforting that she couldn't help but lie still for a minute longer, savoring the moment.

Not very practical of you, her brain told her. What if a dune bear came snarling out from behind one of those rock heaps? Or better yet, an Imperial heavy? Do you expect him to do all the work for you?

Oh, hush, she told it irritably.

Locke continued to hum, and eventually she picked out a soft, almost poignant tune. It seemed perfect for the closing of the day – a farewell to the sun as its last red rays disappeared, far ahead of them. The warm evening breeze, rousing from an afternoon of slumbering and gathering warmth on the dunes, caressed her skin in its place. She shifted ever so slightly against it and the humming in Locke's chest stopped. Slightly embarrassed, Terra sat up, hoping she hadn't drooled on his shirt in her sleep.

"Have a good rest?" His ever-cheerful voice was slightly subdued, as if he too had been swallowed by the spell of the evening desert.

"Yes," she replied. "Locke. What were you doing in that shop? With that old woman?"

He seemed a bit taken aback by the abruptness of the question; in truth, she was a bit surprised at it herself. But it had been nagging at her since her embarrassing overreaction of the previous afternoon, only to be waylaid by the turmoil of her mind since learning about Kefka (much as she tried to forget him).

Locke replied carefully, but with frank honesty. "Truth is, that lady's one of our Returner contacts. She hooked me up with news and a few more supplies we might have needed for the desert crossing. She was fixing to get us another chocobo – or at the very least a saddle – so we wouldn't have to ride crammed together all the time on your flea-ridden friend here –" he reached around to pat Albert good-naturedly on the head, "–but that would've taken till morning and we didn't have time. Also she sent a message to Edgar for me."

Terra marveled at the complex network that made up the Returners; it was becoming increasingly clear that they were more than just a ragged band of rebels. Then a thought occurred to her, and her eyes narrowed. "Why do you tell me all of this? What if I regain my memories and decide to return to the Empire? All your secrets will be compromised."

Locke was silent for a moment. Then he answered, simply, "Arvis and I have faith that you won't."

She raised an eyebrow. Faith? What good was faith when it came to war? Knowing Locke as she did, his statement hinted at truth. But there was more to it, she knew. He was leaving parts out again. She supposed such guardedness was second nature to him, what with him being a spy or Returner secret agent or whatever he was. But that didn't explain the open honesty of his personality otherwise. Based on what he had already told her, the Empire could take out half the Returner forces with her only needing to drop a word or two. The man was a walking contradiction.

The silence thrummed awkwardly between them, made even less comfortable by their sweaty proximity to each other on Albert's back. Eventually, though, it ironed itself out, helped along by the gentle humming of the wind through shifting sands. Finally she asked, testing, "So what did you write in your message?"

"Oh, I was just letting him know we're coming. And now he's got a choice to make. Hey Terr, did I ever tell you about that one time Ed and I were nearly swallowed whole by a giant sand worm? Goddesses be good, I had the scare of my life that day, and Eddie didn't want to leave the castle again for a month. 'Course, we were only harebrained teenagers back then..."

So he was back in evade mode. Well. Maybe he was trying to protect his friend somehow. There must be something more going on with that whole deal; maybe the Empire still believed Figaro loyal, but Terra didn't think for a second that Locke would maintain a friendship with someone who was actively fighting against his cause. And if she, with her mangled memories and questionable mental state, could figure that out, it was likely the Empire had more than an inkling of it, as well. Perhaps the only reason they weren't yet openly at war was because feigning friendship was still more beneficial to both parties.

Terra shook her head. These political intrigues were beyond her; it was really best not to bother with them.

Locke was now going on about killer tree squirrels he had encountered once in the mountain range east of the Lete. She listened for a while with half an ear, the rest of her absorbing the peacefulness of the night and the vast ocean of stars that were now fervently glowing against a perfectly black backdrop. She relaxed and searched out her past in them, feeling slightly ridiculous as she did so. Perhaps a familiar constellation would ignite some barely buried memory? No luck. But at the moment, she was okay with that. "Locke."

He broke off mid-sentence, curious. "Yes?"

"I...enjoy being with you." The words felt awkward, their delivery clumsy, but they were the truth. Despite her questions, her confusion, and those few things he wouldn't or couldn't explain, he had risked his life for her, had given her his unwavering friendship without question. He treated her like a person, and it was a feeling that fit so strangely that she knew, deep down, the unfamiliarity had nothing to do with her amnesia.

With him sitting behind her, she couldn't see his face, but he seemed to tense, ever so slightly. Just as quickly, though, his body relaxed, and his voice softened. "I enjoy being with you too, Terra." His arms wrapped around her in a quick, tight hug.

xxxxx

They rode along to the soft silence of the night an hour more before making camp in the shelter of a rock outcropping, still warm from the day's sun. True to Locke's word, the midday desert heat this time of year was comfortable, the nights bordering on cold. They slept deeply and dreamlessly and set off westward while sunrise was nothing but a mild suggestion on the horizon. Soon the last of the scattered rocky areas disappeared to be overtaken by flowing dunes on every side. Locke led them along the ridges and sometimes through valleys created by sands towering hundreds of feet high. Occasionally he glanced toward the small cairns that appeared now and then to mark their path, but otherwise he seemed primarily to be reading the shape and placement of the dunes themselves – a language unintelligible to Terra, and a feat that boggled her mind considering the fact that said shapes were constantly shifting. As they rode along Locke became almost...expectant, his eyes trained and alert on the horizon. However, nothing appeared but the blue sky and more dunes.

Then, finally, a small group of figures on chocoboback materialized on a tall ridge far ahead, their forms distorted and blurry as they emerged from the shimmering of a distant mirage. Or...they didn't emerge so much as the mirage effect receded, melting away as she and Locke drew closer. The figures merely stood there, stoic but dangerous, their postures implying they had all the time in the world, not to mention total control over any situation.

As they drew closer, Terra made out six men in red and green livery carrying long-shafted spears. These were possibly more symbolic than exercised, if the wicked-looking munitions holstered at their belts were anything to go by. They were obviously military, their posture disciplined and faces inscrutable. However, one from the lead pair broke formation, advancing, while the others halted behind him.

The barest of smiles softened the man's hardened features. "Locke Cole."

"Chancellor." Locke grinned and leaped off Albert to greet the man while Terra stared hard at the rank on his collar. She never had been any good at foreign rank structure. The man was obviously some kind of officer or person of influence, but how much power he held was beyond her. She supposed she should have studied harder at whatever the Empire had taught her about foreign affairs.

Both men were now looking at her, and she realized rather belatedly that Locke had introduced her. "Oh, uh. Hello. I'm Terra."

Never mind that he had already announced her name two seconds before. She was doubtless making an astounding impression.

The man gazed at her, and she couldn't read whatever emotion lurked behind those eyes. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear lady," he declared politely, if distantly. His gaze lingered ever so briefly on a few stray strands of her hair, escaped from their scarf, then returned to Locke – again losing a bit of that hardness – as he began to briefly fill him in on recent castle affairs. Well, if Locke had indeed spent many of his formative years growing up among the Figaros, it would only make sense that these two were familiar. What would it be like to greet family at every turn, she wondered, as seemed to be the case for Locke? Or to greet family at all?

"If you both will follow me," the Chancellor was now saying, remounting, "I will take you to His Majesty's throne room."

A hint of surprise flickered across Locke's face. "We're going straight to the throne room?"

"It was His Majesty's wish to greet you there."

"Huh." Locke said nothing else, but remounted Albert, who by now was flagging somewhat after their long journey through the desert.

The column broke into escort formation around them and led them over the rise. Here the sand sloped steeply downward for several hundred feet before opening into a large valley. And in the center of the valley sat what could only be described as a small fortress.

After so many hours of staring at nothing but pale, curving slopes and flat blue sky, the blocky, regal, highly manmade structure appeared as something of a shock. She had expected some elevated version of the squat, stucco styles of the border towns, or sandstone at the very least – not the hard, gray granite that was as foreign to the region as she was. Terra felt an emotionless, analytical part of her brain rouse and begin ticking off details. How much had it cost to drag all that material out here? Though not as large as Vector's Imperial Palace, this castle was certainly big enough. Steel plating, obviously not part of the original design, adhered to seemingly random surfaces, perhaps placed for reinforcement purposes. Bulwarks and sweeping ramparts and all those things one generally expected to find on a castle were plentiful, but then she caught sight of something that brought all of her wandering attentions to a focus. Gears on the overpasses? And oiled rails, too. It was almost as if some of the towers and battlements were made to be retracted or extended. What purpose that could possibly serve, though, was currently beyond her. All in all, Edgar's home appeared to be composed of a massive conglomeration of old elegance and modern technology with a sporadic application of engineering genius; and yet there remained some distinct lack of permanence that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Locke had been full of smug sideways glances since she first caught sight of Figaro's capitol. Finally she acknowledged him, expression carefully schooled. "It's very...gray."

His face fell. "Gray? You have before you the very birthplace of the world's mechanical wonders...and all you can say is that it's _gray_?" He let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Vector's got Magitek," she pointed out.

His face went curiously still. "Indeed it does. And a mighty mystery it is in regards to how they first developed _that_ little gem of technology. Even nearly twenty years later." His gaze went sharp and strange for a moment as he looked at her, but the expression was smothered by his usual enthusiasm, so quickly she almost could have imagined it. "Vector can keep its flashy little tricks; they malfunction half the time anyway. Figarian technology is top-notch, solid and dependable. Why else would the Empire still rely on its products? Most of Vector's prize scientists interned here first, ya know. Edgar's quite the engineering genius himself, just like most of his ancestors – but do me a kindness, Terr, and don't tell him I said that."

"I hardly need to. You sound like a used carriage salesman already. Another example of your many lucrative trades?" She blinked at him innocently.

"Used carriage...?! Of all the..." Locke's outrage trailed off into disgruntled muttering as she turned her attention back to the desert. Their escort still flanked them in perfect symmetry as they descended into the sandy half bowl. Unexpectedly and in a single fluid motion, the guardian nearest her turned and gracefully hurled a spear out over the dunes, where it impaled a large snake, just behind the head, many yards away.

Well, that answered the question of that particular skillset. The man rode over, finished the separation of head from body, and deftly coiled and tethered the carcass to his saddle. Locke chuckled as Terra stared, indignation forgotten. "The desert teaches a man not to waste," he explained. "The troops'll be eating that fella for dinner. But don't worry, Ed's got nicer stuff for you. Not that snake tastes all that bad. Better than ants, which I had to live off of for _three whole days_ once while I was hiding from these really persistent policem—uhhh, some random crackpots. Goddesses know a man can get so hungry he can't be bothered to pull off _all_ the heads before he eats them. Makes it blasted awkward when they latch onto your tongue on the way down, though."

Fascinated despite herself, Terra opened her mouth to ask more, but the stoic Chancellor cleared his throat. "Sir Locke, I wonder if the lady might not appreciate a change of subject. Happily, I will be able to provide one. Here we are. My lady, Figaro extends to you its warmest welcomes."

They slid off Albert with no small amount of relief, their bodies stiff and sweaty. For his part, Albert was happy enough to be taken into the cool stone stables to rest. The Chancellor led them through the massive outer doors and down a number of wide stone hallways, his gait brisk. The throne room itself, cold and cavernous, was almost severe in its majesty. Its only brightening features consisted of the rich red and green tapestries that hung from the upper galleys and back wall, bearing the Figarian coat of arms – and, curiously, a box full of what appeared to be miscellaneous spare parts and wires, shoved haphazardly behind a curtain on the back wall. Otherwise, the room was completely empty but for the twin thrones perched on the short dais. And the man that occupied one of them.

He was an exceptionally well-formed and well-dressed man, with eyes the color of glacial ice. His bearing was unquestionably that of a king. But when he caught sight of them, cool detachment sharpened to attentiveness.

"Well, well, well. Look who's bothered to pay a visit to my humble little kingdom." He glided to his feet, and, ignoring the Chancellor's attempts to properly announce the visitors, walked straight up to Locke. There he stopped, and the two men regarded each other, arms folded.

Locke replied, one eyebrow raised. "Yet again I remind you: If you weren't living out in the middle of desolation's playground, here, maybe your pals would come visit you more often. You can't even be bothered to send the nice car out for me. I had to get here on the back of a feathered, flea-ridden killing machine!"

The king shrugged elegantly. "You would have gotten it dirty." He peered critically at Locke's face, which did actually happen to be quite grimy at the moment. Terra cringed, embarrassed, as his gaze lingered on the slight black eye she had given him in the border town, the bruises not yet faded. She itched to heal, to manipulate matter in the way that she did to conceive fire, but could never seem to form the correct configurations. "And what happened to your face? A product of a drunken back-alley brawl, no doubt."

"On the contrary. One of your ex-girlfriends sends her love."

"I doubt it. A gentleman never engages in the brand of love that you speak of."

"Tell you what. I'll ask about that when I see one."

The two men stared at each other. Terra, lagging several steps behind, retreated further into the shadows, confusion and worry leaving her anxious to disappear. Then Locke snickered at the very same moment King Edgar burst into a decidedly unkingly grin. In the next instant he had the thief wrapped in a tight bear hug, filthy, travel-worn clothes and all. "By the love of the Goddesses, Locke, it's been far too long. I've been bored out of my mind all winter long. Haven't I told you the desert is the best place to be when it's cold out?" Pushing him to arms' length, he gave Locke's dusty robes a critical once-over. "Disguise or functional?"

"Both. You know how it is," Locke replied breezily, but his look was meaningful. A flicker of seriousness passed between them, but the Chancellor took that moment to clear his throat and shoulder his way politely forward. "Your Majesty. If I may present Locke Cole and his guest, the Lady Terra." His hardened face remained impassive, but his voice carried a subtle hint of rebuke.

Edgar blinked, chagrin clouding his eyes for the barest moment. In an instant the open, laughing man she had witnessed only a moment before was tucked away to be replaced once more by Edgar of Figaro, king and host. She understood that she had been treated to a moment of the Edgar that most of Figaro's supplicants and citizens never saw: Edgar the man.

"My lady, I hope you will accept my deepest apologies. Our mutual friend here momentarily distracted me from the most important matter at hand, as you and I both know he is wont to do – and that matter is you," he breezed, ignoring Locke's indignant exclamations. Then he winked at her, lips curled upward in a suggestive, decidedly ungentlemanly smile.

Terra blinked. So maybe more people were familiar with Edgar the man than she had thought.

"Specifically, your comfort, of course," the king finished. "The Chancellor will show you and Locke to your rooms, where servants will be waiting with hot baths and clean clothes. They will launder your old ones, of course, and have them returned to you by morning. I _do_ hope you will take advantage of our seamstress' talents; though even the most exquisite of garments will fail to live up to your beauty, I'm afraid." Locke rolled his eyes, but King Edgar smoothly continued. "In the meantime, help yourself to all the food you desire. Locke can show you how to access the kitchen and dining rooms. If his rough skills prove lacking..." he smirked, ever so slightly, at the treasure hunter's irritation, "...please, don't hesitate to find me.

'My only request is that you restrict your explorations to the east wing alone, for your own safety. And now, I have business to attend, but will call on you later this evening. Please remember, I am at your service always." With that, he leaned in to place a courteous kiss on her hand, lingering just a hair longer than was necessary. His eyes held hers briefly, but brazenly, as he turned and strode from the room. But not before Terra saw his sly smile vanish and caught the meaningful glance that passed between thief and king.

Internally, she shrugged. The two could be thinking or plotting anything; it was beyond her ability to discern. Frankly, all she cared about at that moment was her promised bath and clean clothes.

"This way, Terra." Locke guided her after the retreating Chancellor with a gentle hand behind her elbow. His face burned slightly. "I have to apologize for the way he acts. Eddie may have been bred with the best manners to be had, but that's all tossed down the loo the moment there's a pretty lady around, much to his poor dead ma's chagrin. Bugger's an incorrigible flirt. It's a good job he's such a keen politician, or he would've lost the kingdom to some conniving lord's girl long ago, all in the name of _love_." His voice drew the last word out in dramatic mockery.

She shrugged. "You did succeed in dressing me as a nun for our meeting." Absently she adjusted the wrap that still concealed her hair.

Locke looked baffled for a moment, then recalled his offhand comment of several days prior. He laughed. "Ah, Terra, m'lady, your mind is a steel trap."

"No. There's just not much in there to keep track of." She had meant only to be matter-of-fact, but Locke's dismayed expression told her she was making people feel awkward again. She cleared her throat self-consciously. "Has he always been like that?"

Locke followed the abrupt return to subject easily. "There's a lot more to Eddie than he lets people know. Masquerading as an overly sexed playboy puts his opponents at ease; makes 'em underestimate him, and think they've got control. But the most dangerous man is the one you forget.

'Now that's not to say that Edgar _isn't_ an overly sexed playboy. He's just very good at knowing when, where, and how to project the various aspects of his personality to the greatest advantage. For instance, the people who really count know how sharp of a ruler he is. Gestahl isn't fooled, either." Locke shrugged. "Also, I think you banged up his ego a bit when you flat out ignored his attempts to seduce you. Which was _hilarious_, I might add." He snickered at the memory.

"The seduction was obviously reflexive. I'm pretty sure he doesn't actually even like me."

"Aww, Terra. What's not to like? Trust me, Edgar found you a _much_ more welcome sight than all those other people he deals with put together. I could practically _hear_ his overloaded charm circuits popping."

Terra remained silent, uncertainty pulling tight at the muscles in her shoulders. She had such little control over her life right now. She felt a burden to everyone; a burden that was so frayed around its edges that it was practically reduced to its original piece of thread.

Locke sobered, his voice softening. "It's not that he doesn't like you, luv. When he says you're a guest in his kingdom, he means it. He'll extend to you every hospitality and protection within his power. He _will_ keep you safe, and so will I. You've got our promise on that."

"But that doesn't mean I'm _welcome_. What's to keep him from changing his mind and giving me right back to the Empire? Seeing as they're supposedly allies." She glared at him meaningfully.

Locke was silent a moment. The Chancellor was guiding them down a long, windowed corridor, the late morning sunlight blazing through to warm the stone walls and brighten the décor, which softened considerably the farther they delved into the living quarters. Terra's eyes were drawn to the soft curves of the dunescape outside, then to the windowsills, themselves. Metal glinting from the ceilings of the frames caught her eye. Retractable window shields, perhaps? What would they need those for – sandstorms?

At last the Chancellor pulled them to a halt in front of a set of heavy wooden doors. Meeting Locke's eyes, he nodded slightly and then quietly slipped away, a murmured "My lady" left floating in his wake.

Locke turned to face her, the sunlight glowing silver in his hair. He spoke softly, for their ears alone. "Terra..."

The muscles in his face twitched; he was obviously waging some sort of internal war. His mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but he quickly clamped it shut again, obviously balking at whatever he had been about to divulge."Please, just...don't worry. Everything will work out; things will be clearer soon. You _have_ to trust me."

"It seems I have little choice, Locke." For a moment her fingertips itched, and her skin tingled. The brewing storm of her frustrations caught hold of a few stray atoms, reflexively pulling them close. But the moment was fleeting and halfhearted; just as quickly she dispersed them. Locke was not the enemy here, and neither was the Figarian king.

Obviously, it was herself.


	3. Chapter 1, Part III

Edgar's staff lived up to their promised hospitality with practiced expertise. In under an hour Terra was bathed, her hair dried and brushed by a young woman who exclaimed admiringly at the color, and her short red dress and stockings were taken to be laundered and mended. In its place they gave her some long, floaty, peach-hued scrap of cloth to wear – probably some contrivance of Edgar's, she thought gloweringly – and a set of delicate gold bracelets delivered "as a gift from His Royal Majesty, with his deepest compliments, for the lovely lady Terra." The kitchens offered delicacies of a selection surprising for a kingdom situated miles away from any sort of life-sustaining terrain, and soon her stomach was happily sated with various flatbreads, avocados, and lavender honey cakes.

She couldn't help but wonder to Locke about the servants' trustworthiness, as friendly as they seemed; he hastened to reassure her that every attendant she met was a member of Edgar's personal staff, hand-picked specifically for their established reliability and kept under the watchful command of the aging matriarch who had helped to raise the royal twins, themselves. Besides, he added, the castle Figarians were an unusually tight-knit group, being as isolated as they were, and ardently loyal. Soon she couldn't help but relax, the light and airy quarters, soft colors, and her full stomach lulling her into contentment. Stretching out among the pillows of her low, wide bed, she fell into sleep.

No fire-tinged dreams disturbed her, and when she woke, she was startled to note that the sun now sat closer to the western horizon than its zenith. Momentarily disoriented, she lurched to her feet. The deplorably filmy gown promptly tangled itself around her legs and she thumped face-first onto the carpet.

The young maid who had brushed her hair burst into the room."Oh! My lady!" she exclaimed, rushing to help Terra to her feet. Flustered, she struggled to gather her remaining dignity, but the young woman brushed the incident aside, skillfully changing the subject. "Mr. Locke wanted me to send word when you woke that he will be busy elsewhere for a while, but that he'll be back in time for dinner. He suggests you visit the gardens in the meantime. They're quite beautiful, Lady! A skillfully-constructed atrium keeps the plants from burning up in the desert sun. Would you like me to show you?"

"No. Um, thank you." For the moment, she preferred to be alone with her thoughts. The maid, however, was still standing there. Was she supposed to release her to go back to her regular duties? What did the royals do in this case? "Uhh...as you were?"

The maid looked at her oddly, but murmured assent and disappeared as swiftly as she had come. Terra felt slightly guilty, realizing belatedly that the girl probably would have welcomed somebody to gossip away the afternoon with, and to discuss news of the outside world. Housekeepers, after all, were people too. However, Terra wouldn't have known for the life of her how to engage in such prosaic activities. If she avoided all human contact until dinnertime, it would probably be the best course of action for everyone.

She wandered the sun-dappled stone halls, carefully ducking back into shadows or dodging into diverging corridors whenever she heard footsteps approach. Eventually she found her way to a grand set of wooden doors, intricate carvings and woodburnings decorating their surface. One of the doors stood invitingly open. Cautiously, she crept inside.

The tantalizing smell of old leather nearly overwhelmed her senses. Interest piqued, Terra breathed deeply. She knew this smell! Row upon row of books lined the walls, floor to ceiling, housed in beautifully rich, wooden shelves. They curved around her in an eye-pleasing semicircle, and continued up into an open second floor. Afternoon sun streamed through tall windows from the left, setting the millions of floating dust mites ablaze in light. Fascinated, Terra started forward.

"I see you've discovered the king's personal library," a voice behind the door said, startling her halfway out of her mind. The air above her palm was already superheated and roiling in the instant it took her to whirl around and find nothing but a lone, friendly-faced guard standing vigil at the entrance.

Casually shoving her hands behind her back, Terra hastily extinguished the ball of imminent death. Why in heaven's name did Edgar have a guard in his _library_? "Hello," she stammered. "I can find somewhere else to go...I'm sorry..."

The man smiled in a kindly fashion, making his regal red and green uniform seem a tad less intimidating. "Don't be silly. You're welcome here. Don't let my presence bother you, lady; just go on as if I'm not even here."

Terra murmured affirmation and hurriedly beelined to the staircase that climbed to the shadowy spaces of the second level, hoping to put distance between herself and the uniformed man. He had seemed amicable enough, but his presence made her nervous. Wandering the book-bound alleys, she finally found a cozy, hidden nook that would suit her well. Her finger made a clean track in the dust as she traced it the length of the bookcase, perusing what titles it had to offer her. Finally she pulled a volume from its shelf: _Planetary__ Astrophysics, Vol.2. _She nodded in satisfaction, settled herself onto the thick carpet, and flipped open the text.

As the afternoon whiled itself away, Terra took in page after page. Occasionally she heard the guard whistle a soft tune, or pace leisurely from window to door, but he never approached her, being content with the sound of her thunking the occasional book from shelf to floor, she guessed. She replaced _Planetary Astrophysics, Vol. 2_ with _Horticulture of Albrook in the Fifth Age. _Rifling through its pages, she discarded it and turned to the nearest row. _Mechanical Engineering and You. _Too elementary. _The Ultimate Compendium of Machinery – _slightly better. _A Dialectical Examination of Mind Versus Matter: Self Help Edition. _What kind of organizational scheme was Edgar running here, anyway? Tossing it aside, she grabbed a plain leatherbound book and flipped it open. Intricate, colorful illustrations greeted her. She was about to shove this away, too, but something in the story caught her eye – perhaps it was the tiny, detailed expressions on the characters' faces, or maybe it was the simple, straightforward text on the page. Either way, she found herself plying deeper into their lives, her eyes taking in every page. The tale was simple, as far as tales go; it told of a man and woman who had found forbidden love. Overcoming many odds, they eventually married and raised children, who brightened their days and enriched their lives in the beautiful estate they made into their home.

Terra's fingers came gently to rest on a jubilant depiction of the man and woman smiling together, their children running all about them. It triggered no memories, but stirred something deep inside her. She stared at their painted, joyful faces. What these characters shared was the thing people called "love." Of course she had heard the word before, tossed about, casually exclaimed, deeply professed. But it had never meant much to her before...had it? Her stomach clenched at the beginnings of a sneaking realization and she frantically searched her memories. This couldn't be right; there had to be some remnant of a family in there, of an adored mother or even a beloved sister. There _had _to. She _must_ have experienced love before; no _normal_ person led a completely loveless life. Nobody human did.

But there was nothing. She slumped in defeat even as her heart remained curiously numb. Her eyes drifted to focus on one of the smiling girls near the couple's feet, soft in watercolor but, it appeared to Terra, bold in temperament. Unwittingly her memories flew to the spirited little girl she had met in the town marketplace – the girl who had so unquestioningly accepted her, and had been summarily betrayed by Terra and her tattered mind.

Abruptly her throat tightened and she slammed the book closed. _Now _she felt something; but whatever _this_ was, it was terrible. Determinedly blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she dug into a dense collection of ancient tomes. They sat forgotten on a bottom shelf in a shadowy corner and, as Terra soon came to discover, detailed the complete workings of every mad invention ever dreamed by the long line of Figarian kings and queens, beginning with King Ulric himself, long, long ago. Initially her eyes flitted across the faded drawings and scribbled notes without comprehension, but eventually she found her interest piqued in spite of herself. Soon her emotional turmoil was forgotten. Edgar was obviously borne of a line of extremely intelligent people, if not always the most practical. And some of these drawings and diagrams were very interesting.

Very,_ very_ interesting, in fact...

Terra's stomach growled. It must be getting close to dinner, where Locke and possibly even Edgar expected to meet her. She glanced at the angle of the sun, filtering between the shelves at the far end of her row. Perhaps there would be time for one more, if she skimmed. Replacing the thick tome, she pulled at the next volume in line.

There was a faint click, and, soundlessly, the shelf slid aside to reveal a door.

She stared.

And then shrugged. Well, why _wouldn't _the library be full of secret doors and passages? Ancient castles were riddled with the things, according to every legend in the world. Gamely, she leaped to her feet and tried the latch. It opened smoothly. Which was strange – shouldn't an old secret door be creaking and groaning like the octogenarian it probably was? Peering back over her shoulder, Terra listened for the guard. The sounds of his feet scuffing the floor in casual boredom floated up the stairs. Grabbing a nearby encyclopedia, she held it out at arms' length and let it drop to the floor. That ought to hold him for a while. Resolutely, she stepped inside.

The corridor was dark, but not long – she estimated she'd only traveled about twenty feet in total darkness, turning a single bend, when a dim paling of black to gray indicated a light source ahead. Rounding another corner, she found herself at a dead end – but there, in the wall, shone the faint outline of what looked like an eye-level mail slot. Gingerly, she reached for it and discovered its thin cover slid aside, allowing a narrow but sufficient view into the adjoining room. A spy hole? Terra was faintly surprised. Did King Edgar know about this? Or did his servants use it to spy on _him?_

She had just begun poking around for any hidden latches when, through the hole, she saw the room's heavy doors swing open. Startled, she stumbled back against the cold stones of the corridor. Male voices floated in, and Terra was surprised to see Locke enter, followed closely by Edgar.

If Terra had had a mother, she had probably taught her not to eavesdrop. But since Terra couldn't remember said parent _or _what she had allegedly professed, she could hardly be blamed. Unashamedly, she eased her face back toward the slot.

Locke sauntered over to a corner of the room not viewable from her spyhole – the area was rather large – while Edgar turned and carefully locked the door. Then, ignoring the massive, formal desk occupying a considerable portion of the room, he settled into a comfortable-looking chair next to to a sizable marble fireplace. The place held a mixed atmosphere of formality and relaxed comfort. This must be Edgar's personal office, where he directed his affairs of state in addition to casual gatherings with friends.

Locke returned from the unseen corner bearing a glass of wine and a simple cup of water. Passing the wine to his friend, he flopped into the plush chair across from him. Both were silent for a time, thoughtfully sipping their drinks.

Then Locke spoke up. "So...the throne room, eh? It's been a while since I've seen the inside of that freezing old crypt. Can't say I missed it."

"You can't tell me you're surprised." Edgar swirled his drink absently in its glass, his grip light and refined.

"To be honest, I am, a little bit. I know I put you in a difficult position when I wrote that I was coming here with her. But I figured we'd still be taking the smuggler's route in and lying low the rest of the time, just like I've been doing the past two years."

Terra's shoulders tensed. It wasn't difficult to deduce who the aforementioned _her_ could be.

"Look, Locke," the king said, "you knew what you were doing when you forced me to decide whether to turn her away or accept her. And I decided this way because I trust you. I trust that you know what you're doing. Which, quite honestly, is madness on my part, considering. I've still never forgotten that day you said, 'Hey Edgar! You know what would be fun? Let's see if we can lure a giant sandworm out of the dunes!'" He glowered.

"Hey, I was just putting it out there. You didn't _have_ to agree."

"But what it really comes down to, Locke," he continued, pretending not to have heard, "is that it's only a matter of time before Figaro is exposed. Gestahl already knows I maintain Returner ties. It's not much of a leap to figure out that I've got my own little behind-the-scenes operation going on here. He keeps the peace at his own leisure, which is _not_ a good position for me to be in. The fact that Terra is or was, at some point, here, will be leaked eventually, whether we had kept it covert or not. Turning her away would make me as self-serving as the Empire.

'And then there's the matter of you, brother." Placing his glass carefully on the hearth, he stood and began to pace. Locke listened quietly. "As good as you are, as many precautions as we take, somebody aside from my staff would eventually have figured out that you and I still keep in regular contact – if they haven't already – even _after_ your vaunted ascension onto the _Empire's List of Most Wanted. _As happy as I was about that." Another glare. "And we certainly wouldn't have been able to explain that away with youthful ties; not anymore.

'So, Locke, there you have it. The world is changing; war is stirring. I see it in the politicians' faces, in the citizens' moods, in the flow of trade. The game is almost up. The Empire has all but abandoned subtlety. You know what they're saying about that battalion camped out in the Eastern Range? They're telling me their breach into Figarian territory is the result of a navigational error. A _navigational error – _hundreds of miles away from their nearest base of operations. And that the attack on Narshe was the work of rogue agents. We all know I'm not that stupid – but what can I do? Accuse them of lying and risk war? Well, Locke, perhaps that's where we're at, after all."

Locke listened, silent. From what Terra knew of him, Edgar was not normally so verbose. Locke had told her that one of his greatest political weapons was his ability to unobtrusively glean from those who lived life to the rhythm of their own voice, while giving them nothing in return. Now his stress was palpable, the fear for his people genuine.

Finally Locke spoke, voice soft. "Have we chosen our contingency plan for if South Figaro falls?"

Edgar returned to his seat wearily. "We should have some time yet before it comes to that. I wasn't completely lax in my security when I brought you two here; unless my team has inexplicably plummeted in their quality, there is little chance of the Empire finding you here, even if I did allow them to direct a search. Though we should probably expect an annoying string of unwelcome visitors over the next few weeks."

Locke was silent a moment longer, face unreadable. When he spoke, his voice carried a quiet conviction. "She _is_ worth it. I know it. What she did wasn't her fault. The Empire used her in the sickest way imaginable – they stole her bloody _mind_ from her, and then used her to commit atrocities, may they all burn in hell. Now that she's free, Arvis thinks she'll join with the Returners. She could be a huge asset to our cause – both in terms of the information she could give us when she regains her memories, and whatever these mystery skills are that's got the Imperial hive all in an uproar trying to get her back."

Terra's stomach had gone cold; her heart began to pound.

Edgar watched him, gaze mild but penetrating. " 'Arvis thinks.' And what do _you_ think, Locke?"

"I think she'll do the right thing," Locke replied, defensively. "And whether that's joining with the Returners or going her own way, it's not for us to say."

"I suspect Banon will feel differently. It's not for us to say until 'going her own way' turns into 'feeling homesick for the Empire and delivering our secrets all wrapped up in a pretty little package.' How do you know she won't regain her memories, and with it, whatever convictions kept her in the Empire to begin with? Are you willing to risk thousands of lives for that?"

Locke looked miserable. He ran his finger in circles around the rim of his cup, eyes downcast. "Ed, I...I don't know. I just know she's not like that. I can't explain why. If she turns on us...well, we've survived traitors before. But she wouldn't do that. I've spent a lot of time with her over the past week, and she's one of the most genuine, beautifully unique people I have ever met. She's special, Ed, and she deserves more than this."

Edgar's gaze sharpened, and his expression turned strange. "Locke..." his voice was uncharacteristically hesitant, questions lurking around the edges. "This isn't about–"

"No!" Locke interrupted, voice sharp. His entire body had stiffened, his water glass locked in a white-knuckled grip. Making a visible effort to cool the heat in his tone, he amended, "No, it's not about that. She needed help, and now we happen to be friends. Nothing more." Though his words had softened considerably, his face remained rigid.

"All right, Locke. All right." Edgar's tone turned placating, a diplomat smoothing over a contentious subject. "So remind me, please. What do the Returners know about her? Have we figured out why the Empire wants her so badly? We all know the stories, of course, about how a year or two back, under Kefka's command, she supposedly burned dozens of their own troops to a cinder in less than a minute."

Burned...

So. She, Terra Branford, was a murderer. All these days wandering around with an empty memory, searching for herself, only to discover that person was a monster. She expected horror and hysteria to bubble up inside her, but curiously, there was nothing. Only a numb, matter-of-fact, bone deep exhaustion. Almost as if she had been waiting, tense and fearful, for the worst to happen, and it finally had; though awful, there was a twisted sort of reprieve in it as well. And now the connections began clicking into place. Of _course_ the Empire would be after her for her firepower. She hadn't witnessed anybody _else_ happily running around the countryside igniting chocobos and children's playthings with their minds. How had it even been a question? Granted, she had been a tad distracted, what with missing major parts of her mind and all. And the ability had felt so natural, so much a part of her; it had never even occurred to her to question it. Perhaps her subconscious had always been more in touch with the way of things; along with some sort of ingrained instinct, that quiet voice of sense had been the only force discouraging her from casually lighting up Locke's carefully-built campfires at night, or blasting into oblivion the occasional skittering areneid.

And then there was Edgar. As she had suspected, he wasn't one of Gestahl's men at all; _and_ he had risked his kingdom protecting her, that was clear. A person couldn't ask for much more goodwill than that. But his doubts remained evident. She had seen the brief moment of pain that crossed his face at the mention of South Figaro, his frustration at his powerlessness to defend his most distant subjects from the Empire's insidious, multifaceted trap.

_A strong king will do anything to protect his people_. The maddeningly familiar voice – a female's, cool and controlled – crept unchallenged into her thoughts, drifting in from the darkened, closed-off part where her memories were locked away. Terra strained, but try as she might, she couldn't match a person to the memory. But the thought lingered. Would Edgar sacrifice everything to keep his own people safe? Would he sacrifice _her_?

_Get it together, Terra._ It was her own voice this time, stern and commanding. _You don't know all the facts, and you won't ever if you keep standing there feeling sorry for yourself._

And besides, Locke was on her side. Wholly and completely. She knew that now.

With a deep breath and a shudder, she pulled herself together. It wouldn't do any good to stand here in the dark working herself into a frenzy. She needed to collect more information, and then decide what to do. Resolutely, she peered out the spy slot once more.

Edgar was still speaking; her internal battle had raged over the course of only a few seconds. " –the rumors being that it was through some mystical power of her own, and not your run-of-the-mill Magitek," he said. "What do you know about that?"

"Well..." Locke considered a moment. "We never even knew of her existence up until a couple of years ago. That was the event that put her on the radar. The wildest rumors say that she practices pure magic – the natural sort, you know, like in the legends – but more likely it's some experimental upgrade to the B-series Magitek infusions they gave Generals Christophe and Chere. I never saw evidence of magic, natural _or_ artificial, in all the time we traveled together, although..." His face turned quizzical for a moment, as if something had only just occurred to him. Impatiently he dismissed it. "Anyway, before that we only knew her as another member of the highly-talented, elite group of students that Vector sent through that specialized battle school program of theirs. She attended in the same yeargroup as General Chere and a couple more individuals who have since become hotshot military officers and intel agents. My guess is that Kefka saw something in her and decided to turn her into his pet project. Or maybe they were schooling her for that all along; who knows." Anger had begun to simmer in his voice once more. "I'd hazard that he put that godforsaken crown on her head, tested her out on their own troops, and then put her away again until now. That's got Kefka stench all over it, the disgusting piece of rat filth." He deflated a bit. "But _why _now? Why Narshe? There're all these rumors floating around about something they found in the mines. Arvis heard it was some kind of frozen fossil or ancient beast or something. Terra and I had to hightail it out of there, so I never got the chance to investigate it myself. But what could be so important about some moldy old carcass that Gestahl would risk war trying to retrieve..." Locke shrugged helplessly.

Edgar was quiet a long while, his chin resting in his hand and his gaze fixed on empty space. Finally, he stirred. "If Figaro goes to war, we'll need more allies than the Returners alone. Doma is the obvious choice, but he's not likely to trust me anytime soon, not after my long 'alliance' with the Empire."

Locke scoffed, leaning back to prop his feet up on the hearth. "King Doma's smart enough to realize it was a front."

"Locke, I respect your considerable resume in world travel, but you've never had to throw a dinner party for a committee of Doman delegates. Two hours of a ceremonial pre-dinner exchange of ancestral legends smothered in heroics and all the honor they bestowed upon their descendants in the process, all under the guise of complimentary humility. _Two hours_, Locke." He mimicked an affected Doman accent. " 'Thy fathers doth bring great honor upon the house of Figaro!' 'On the contrary, good Ambassador, Figaro is but a lowly kingdom of humble lineage.' '_Nay,_ King Edgar, the deeds of mine own grandfather appear modest by comparison to thine. _Thine_ ancestors art truly great!' And so on and so forth until all the Domans are thoroughly satisfied that they've both achieved their politeness quota for the night _and_ can feel secretly content in the reestablishment that they're truly the most heroic and honorable people in the history of the planet. And maybe they are. But this doesn't help our cause in the fact that, to them, I'm a shady, two-faced, double-dipping politician. Having indiscernible motives is practically a _crime _there."

Locke listened politely to the tirade, which Edgar had obviously needed to get off his chest for some time now. Then he piped, cheerily, "Ah, but Edgar...you're forgetting the great uniter of men...the one that may trump even love...and that's hate! Doma has hated Vector since it was nothing more than a humble little city-state. Legend has it that the Doman princess –"

Edgar groaned. "Locke, I _know_ the legend. Unrequited love, mortal insults, combat, tragedy, nobody allowing anybody else to save face, everybody acting without honor, blah blah blah."

"Oh, do you?" he countered brightly. "As I was saying...the Doman princess fell in love with her paternal aunt's youngest brother's cousin's oldest male first cousin once removed's grandmother's grandson, which, if you were sharp on the uptake, you may realize is the same thing as her brother. But unfortunately not everyone is so bright, and when tracing their family histories together they kept getting caught up on the first cousin once removed thing, as people will tend to do, never making the sibling connection. 'Cause everybody thought this brother was a Vectoran, and the two didn't _know_ they were siblings, since he had been misplaced at birth and raised by the kindly Vectoran sovereign, with no knowledge of his true parentage. So they got married, but unfortunately this began a pattern of inbreeding that continued waaay down the line until someone had Kefka. And the existence of Kefka is a good enough insult for _anybody_, much less a Doman. So you see, Eddie my friend, why King Doma would have significant cause to ally with you."

Edgar stared. "That's...not how the story goes at all."

"That's not how the _Domans_ tell it," Locke corrected patiently. He stretched his leg to nudge him with a foot. "Aw, come on Edgar. Cheer up. You've been so cutthroat lately."

Edgar raised a single elegant eyebrow. "Cutthroat?"

"Grim and determined. Inexorable. Unforgiving. Relentless. You've been stalking around the castle with a little thunderhead hovering over you all winter long."

"You haven't even _seen_ me this winter, Locke. If you'll recall, you spent it running around Vector."

"Well it was summer there. And trust me, I would have much preferred going to the castle Yule party over sneaking around musty old warehouses collecting intel on Magitek. That city reeks to high heaven no matter what the season."

Edgar sighed, then smiled wryly. "I've just been stressed, Locke, that's all. It's truly good to see you again. We should head to dinner, though; it's getting late, and Terra is probably waiting for us. Care for a chocobo race tomorrow morning, for old times' sake? I don't know what poor sap you stole your bird from, but he looks like a fighter."

Locke snorted. "You don't know the half of it. Sorry, but you'll have to rope Terra into your ugly schemes. The only way you'll find me on that flea-ridden monster's back again is if I'm tied there. As a corpse." Their light conversation continued as they made for the door. Terra turned and slumped back against the eye slit, drained, all that she had learned raging through her head as she wearily prepared to sneak her way back into the library.

Fate, however, rarely missed an opportunity to exercise its sense of humor, and then cackle and point nastily at its unpleasantly surprised victims. As she leaned against the wall, a telltale _click_ echoed down the stone hall. There was a slight groan of rock and old hinges, and Terra found herself revolving, ponderously and implacably, into the stateroom.

Edgar and Locke, frozen at the door, blinked at her. Edgar went pale and Locke's jaw dropped just slightly.

Terra, her dress dirty and slightly torn, tangled sea green hair laced in spiderwebs, standing small and thin where a heavy fireplace had resided seconds before, squared her shoulders and fixed the men with a dispassionate stare. "Your secret passages need cleaning."

A faint wheeze escaped Edgar's throat, and Locke murmured a rather rude-sounding prayer to some deity or another. Edgar pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, seeming to gather himself. When he opened them, he was the stately king once more, albeit a tired and exasperated one. "Gaspar was on watch today, wasn't he."

"If you're referring to your library guard, he was a perfect gentleman and left me alone while I read, like a guard _should_ do. Don't you think it's a bit of a red flag to keep guards in the library to begin with?"

Edgar sighed. "It's a necessary measure. I suppose there's no point in hiding from you the fact that that particular compartment," he motioned toward the dingy corridor she had just vacated, "is one of our primary reconnaissance sectors. Gaspar always was a bit of a scatterbrain." He made a slight motion with his shoulders, an aristocratic imitation of helpless irritation.

The laziness in his stride slightly forced, Locke came to stand next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Terra's right, you know. The spiders in there can get tiresome. Someone needs to introduce that place to a vacuum cleaner." He turned to her, smiling but worried. "Did...did you hear _all_ of that?"

"Yes."

A single muscle in Edgar's chiseled, kingly jaw twitched. Locke's face flamed with chagrin, but at the same time he appeared curiously relieved. It must have eaten him alive to have to play his two friends off each other, keeping one's secrets while protecting the other, and vice-versa. Still, at the moment she was having a rather difficult time mustering much sympathy. Ducking away from Locke's grip, she strode over to the nearest armchair, sat down, and turned to regard them with a challenging air. "Why do I have green hair?" she demanded.

Both men faltered, this obviously being one of the last in a long list of questions she possibly could have posed. Edgar, at a loss, turned to Locke, eyebrow quirked and arms folded, conveniently appearing to wonder the very same thing.

Locke, suddenly the focus of two gazes laced with varying degrees of hostility, assumed a wounded and beleaguered air. "Why are you all asking _me? _Do I look like the harbinger of fashion? They say that expensive salon in Jidoor has a really nice sage shade in right now – I hear it's all the rage among the opera floozies. Spending too much time in chlorinated pools will do that to ya, too, I hear..." his rambling speech trailed away to oblivion under the force of her withering glare.

"Maybe it's because I'm not human. Maybe that's why I killed those people."

Locke looked so thoroughly distressed, that for a moment she almost felt sorry for him. "Don't be silly, Terr. Of course you're human. _You're_ the victim here. What happened in Vector _wasn't your fault."_

Terra rebuffed the pleading in his voice with a frosty retort. "You said yourself you don't know when they put the crown on. I could have been conducting that massacre of my own free will."

"_No, _Terr." Locke's eyes blazed in emotion, and his tone was earnest. "There's no possible way that was the case. And you know why? It's because I _know _you. I know you're not capable of that!" He began to approach her once more, hand stretched out entreatingly, but thought better of it at her steely expression and let it fall to his side. "Your hair color, which is very becoming on you, has anyone ever told you that? – could very well be some side effect of Magitek experimentation. That place is full to the brim with crazy scientists, all running around trying to screw up the way nature made things. Like I was telling Edgar, we just don't know enough about you prior to a couple of years ago. What we know is that you were used in the worst way. An unimaginable way. But now you're free of that. You're free, Terra! You have the power to fight against it, to make it right. Or to just leave it all and start your own life! You don't have to go back to that again!"

"Don't I, Locke?" She folded her arms challengingly across the soft, if slightly dirty, fabric at her chest. "And that's why I'm hiding in a fortress in the middle of a desert, endangering others with my very existence. Because I'm so _free._"

The passion seemed to drain from him, leaving him tired and worn. His jaw clenched and he lapsed into silence, eyes burning with some unnamed emotion. Edgar, who had been easing slowly backward during the course of their heated exchange, now interjected. "Terra."

She started at his familiar use of her first name, and the frankness in his tone, suddenly free of all its royal airs and conventions.

"Locke's right," he affirmed. "There's nothing you can do to alter the past, but you can fight your absolute hardest to change the future. That's what Locke and I have been attempting to do for most of our lives. Maybe all that you even _have_ to remember is a life as a government project. Perhaps being freed of your memories is a blessing rather than a curse – a rare opportunity to start anew, to leave the past powerless in its place." His voice softened slightly. "In the meantime, it's true that there will be difficulties to face, emotional as well as physical. But Locke has pledged to keep you safe. You can't ask for a better protector than him. As for me, yes, it's true that my kingdom is in danger. But we've always played a dangerous game here. And never make the mistake of underestimating a Figarian – we can take care of ourselves. Your being here is not a burden; it's simply a twist in a much larger story, and we will flow with the shifting of the sands accordingly. Overall, whatever may come, I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm. You have my solemn word on that."

Terra wilted, the uncharacteristic anger and frustration cooling as quickly as it had burst to life. "Oh," was all she could think to say.

A slightly awkward silence settled on the room. Clearing her throat, she met the king's gaze. "Thank you...Edgar." Then she turned to Locke, ashamed. "Locke, I –"

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, smothering her apology in the clean-smelling cotton of his shirt. Over his shoulder, she could see Edgar watching, again regarding them with that strange, piercing expression. Locke seemed to sense it too and quickly stepped away, reaching out to tousle her hair in a brotherly fashion. "You've got something in your hair," he murmured, picking at the spiderwebs. "Besides the green dye, I mean." Smiling, he nudged her. She reached up and briefly touched his hand in return.

Edgar cleared his throat. "And now that we're all thoroughly familiar with the deepest, darkest secrets of Figaro, may we _please_ retire to the dining room?"

"I would like that," Terra affirmed. "I only have one more question. Why does your castle sink?"

She hadn't thought Edgar's teeth could clench any harder than they had already. She had been wrong. "_What?_" he ground.

"I read your books," she stated, matter-of-factly. "The blueprints for the retractable turrets? A dead giveaway. Not to mention King Aeron's sketches of the giant platform elevator."

"Neither of which indicate a castle's ability to sink."

"I figured the rest out on my own," she said blithely.

Edgar's mouth remained in a fixed, tight line.

Locke, who had finally finished choking on an ill-timed sip of water, turned to face the king. "It's not as if the information isn't all there to be had," he pointed out brightly, if a bit shakily. "It's just that nobody's ever put the pieces together. Everybody thought Aeron was insane when he suggested installing giant rails in the desert mining tunnels. It's right there in the history books."

Edgar emitted a long, tired sigh.

"And as we know," Locke continued, "our Imperial friends, like most megalomaniac dictators, don't read history; otherwise they would stop trying to repeat it all the time. So cheer up! It's not all bad." He nudged Edgar enthusiastically in the shoulder.

"_Nobody_ reads those histories, Locke – _nobody_. That's why we installed one as the door trigger – oh, sodding hell. That's how you found the passageway, isn't it." He turned to stare reproachfully at Terra. She blinked at him unapologetically. "Well, congratulations, my lady. You are now privy to _all _of Figaro's secrets." With an air of wounded pride, he turned to leave the room.

"Ahh, don't mind him," Locke whispered as they fell into step behind the king. "He's exaggerating. That's not even _close_ to all of Figaro's secrets. Kings just don't like to share their privileged information, that's all. Makes 'em feel cheated, less cryptic. And let me tell you, those buggers _love_ their air of mystery."

"I can hear everything you say, Locke," Edgar shot over his shoulder.

Locke winked at her and they hurried to catch up, continuing through a number of stone corridors until they reached a comfortable, intimate dining room glowing with the last vestiges of the setting sun. Dinner itself offered more delicacies than Terra had ever imagined, and the serious mood from the stateroom soon lightened to cheerful banter and ridiculous stories. She watched the thief and king trade good-natured insults, content to soak in their levity and the illusion of safety it brought.

However, she couldn't banish entirely the revelations of the afternoon. It was all good and well for Edgar and Locke to urge her to leave the past behind; unfortunately, this was made difficult when one found oneself being actively pursued by aforementioned past. And then there was still the touchy matter of her abilities, a subject which she had so far managed to dodge addressing directly. That one would catch up with her soon, no doubt.

Beneath it all, a strange, uneasy feeling persisted that she was a being in whom change resided. She was a harbinger of chaos. And this little pocket of safety she had discovered, this delicate balance of peace, wasn't likely to persist.

**xxxxx**

Terra woke from fire-tinged dreams to Locke's voice in her ear. Groggily, she slogged back to the surface of consciousness. It was here that she recognized the urgency in his tone, and opened her eyes. He was kneeling next to her low bed, hair and clothes slightly disheveled as if he had only just rolled into wakefulness himself.

"Locke? What time is it?"

"Early. You've got to get up, Terra. Our visitors have come a heap sooner than expected."

The grim tone of his voice made her stomach clench. "Who?"

"The court jester himself. Kefka." Locke practically spat the name. "Those must've been his forces we saw from the train; somehow they followed us here. Or he must have guessed we were headed to Figaro; I can't imagine how they would've sniffed out our trail otherwise. I was extra careful to cover all the bases." His mouth tightened in displeasure.

The burned clown doll flashed to mind. How many people had witnessed that little display? She had been fairly certain it had been only herself and the little girl in that alleyway, but... Terra picked at the hem of her lightweight nightgown, fingers clenching and unclenching around the fabric. Then she looked Locke straight in the eyes. "I want to see him."

He tilted his head slightly, but didn't seem surprised. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Amazed at the relative lack of protest, she launched herself out of bed before he could lock her safely away in a tower somewhere. "Yes. Not directly, of course. I just need to see." She pulled on a pair of delicate silver and gold slippers; then, as an afterthought, grabbed a light jacket from the closet. The stone hallways were cold in the mornings, and, judging by the lack of light beaming through her east-facing windows, it was quite early. "I assume Edgar's got a spy hole or two tucked away in the throne room?"

"You assume well, luv, as always. Stay close." With a quick squeeze of her shoulder, Locke started down the hallway, only barely beginning to pale with the light of dawn. But instead of taking them westward toward the throne room, he led her down a bare, ancient stairwell. She half-jogged just to keep up with his brisk pace. Eventually the sound of heavy machinery began to thrum through the walls, increasing in magnitude as they descended. When it had reached a muffled crescendo, they emerged onto a wide landing. One side was sectioned off into a kind of office, a myriad of buttons, knobs, and levers built into a large console surrounding a single chair. From that chair rose an elderly man, eyes still bright with intelligence and clarity. Locke murmured in his ear for a few moments – his words were lost in the clamor – and then the man nodded once, entered a code into his console, and pressed a button. Locke motioned her down a final stairwell; she could feel the man's gaze bore into her back as they left.

As they pushed open the heavy steel door at the bottom, the general cacophony escalated to a roar. Locke tossed her a pair of foam plugs sitting in a bin just inside the entrance; gratefully, she pressed them into her ears. Then they rushed through what was quite probably a mechanical wonderland, if she'd had the time to stop and actually study any of it. Massive gears, pistons, levers – it was all there, working together in a truly remarkable demonstration of human genius. And then, just as quickly, it was back to the dark stone hallways; unlike the well-maintained upstairs portions, however, these held the heavy chill of a tomb. Corridors, turns, endless staircases – Terra was just about to ask Locke if he was _sure_ he knew where he was going when he finally stopped and motioned her close.

"On the other side of this wall is the throne room," he murmured, voice low. They must have just climbed at least three hundred stairs, and he wasn't even out of breath, she noted with irritation."And see that wall intersecting it on the perpendicular? On the other side of that is the surveillance room. There are a bunch of officials hanging around in there ready to monitor everything that happens as we speak. But we won't get in their way; as it so happens, we've got our own little cubby we can watch from right up this way. It's a throwback from Queen Eleonor's time, about two hundred years or so back."

"Just how paranoid _is _the royal line of Figaro?" she asked in disbelief, as they began the ascent up yet another accursed staircase.

He snorted. "A ruler is a fool if he thinks that playing straight in politics is going to keep his people alive. Unless he's a Doman, of course. They're just...special. Ah, here we are!"

He ushered her in to what appeared, from the outside, to be nothing more than a broom closet. As it turned out, that's all it appeared to be inside, as well, if broom closets were equipped with microphones and windows looking out from upper galleys into throne rooms.

Terra shied away from the glass. "They'll see us!" she hissed. In her brief glimpse through the window, she had caught sight of only Edgar, the Chancellor, and what must be a part of his council. Edgar had looked regal and composed – a glaring contrast to her own nightgown, slipper, and bedhair ensemble. She supposed that Appearing Well Dressed In the Face of Highly Stressful Circumstances As Well As Early In the Morning was an introductory course in king school. Still, there had been an air of disquiet in his stance, a hint of forced leisure in his pace. Cautiously, she crept to the window again. His councilors flanked him on the dais and the Chancellor stood slightly behind, conversing quietly with the king, who listened attentively and occasionally dipped his head in the barest of nods.

But there were no Imperials to be seen. "Where are they?" she whispered, brow knit in confusion.

"First of all," Locke began, his conversational voice blaring like a trumpet in the wake of the last few moments' hushed tones, "You don't have to whisper in here. This wall is solid rock, and the glass is extremely thick. Secondly, they _can't_ see us. There's no way into the upper galley from the throne room, and the window is covered from the outside by a tapestry."

"So how can _we _see them?"

"Ah, Figaro's genius doesn't stop at mere machinery. These tapestries are made out of a special thread and assembled in a very particular pattern – reflective and opaque on the outside, but the weave loose enough to be near transparent from the inside. Don't ask me how it's done; I was never very good at crafty type things, despite my grandmother's repeated attempts at trying to teach me how to knit. And thirdly," he continued, as if they had never wandered down that tangent, "Kefka and his troops are still on their way. Their arrival was sudden, and comes at a transparently inconvenient time of day, but it wasn't an ambush. They went through all the official channels – requested transport from the royal station and everything. So don't worry," he assured, suddenly remembering what it might mean to her. "I don't think there's any special danger in this little visit."

"If I was worried, I wouldn't have asked to come here."

"Touche, my lady, touche," Locke replied with mock gravity. But despite her assertions, Terra _was_ worried, and didn't understand how Locke could remain so carefree. Her fire-laced dreams of the previous night had unsettled her more than she cared to consider. For that matter, she recognized a certain irresponsibility in her actions now. What would happen when she finally saw, in person, the living cause of her trauma? She had lost control over a _doll_, obliterating it in an uncontrolled burst of flame. What would happen with the man himself? A conflagration of castle-sized proportions?

_You've killed innocents before,_ an inner voice reminded her.

Irritated, she shut her whirling thoughts away into that mental attic, leaving her senses blank and receptive. At that moment a disturbance began below; guards hurried in to converse with the king, who sent them away with a murmured word. Unhurriedly, he settled himself in the lefthand throne with the cool and gathered air of a man of unquestionable power. Not a moment later, a lone herald entered.

"In the name of Gestahl, High Emperor and Deliverer of Peace to the Southern Continent, General Kefka Palazzo, His Spokesman and Royal Mouthpiece, requests audience with King Edgar Figaro, Forty-Fifth Monarch of the Kingdom of Figaro."

Locke was busy snickering at the "royal mouthpiece" part, but Edgar calmly motioned for the visitors to be sent forward. A small contingency of brown-clad guards marched in, followed by an even smaller handful of personal bodyguards encased in night black armor – but none of them outnumbering Edgar's retinue, not by a single man. Gestahl was certainly careful about what messages he sent.

Kefka, on the other hand, was not. He ambled into the throne room, eyes swinging disinterestedly from side to side. "Ah, Edgar. Still the picture of health, I see. How _fortunate_ for your kingdom."

A distinctive stir arose from the council, most of them old enough to remember vividly the circumstances of King Edwin's death and the Empire's suspected role in the tragedy. Edgar remained expressionless, his eyes almost heavy-lidded.

Terra, for her part, didn't feel a thing.

_Why don't I remember anything else about you?_ she mentally ground at the man below. No new emotions had stirred; no revelatory flashbacks. All she had to go by were the unexpected recollections her mind had dredged up this past week of traveling – and those featured a raving lunatic, garishly dressed and brightly painted, bathed in fire and horror. _This_ man, though it was true his gaudy attire could use a good soaking or two in a bleach bucket, and he was possibly wearing just a _hint_ of eyeliner, was almost...normal.

No, that wasn't right. There was something about him that wasn't normal at all. The way he dressed, and the way he spoke – stretching certain words out into a long drawl, inflecting others with singsong tones – these things were quirks. But there was something else...the eyes, she decided. Something in them wasn't right.

Edgar calmly rose to his feet. "General Kefka," he acknowledged. "How good of you to visit our desert kingdom. I trust you've encountered no problems with the sand."

The barest, most microscopic hint of nastiness had entered his voice. Locke snorted with muffled laughter. Terra blinked. Obviously she was missing out on _that_ little inside joke.

Kefka apparently wasn't amused either. He stared straight at Edgar with those eerie, piercingly pale eyes. Then they flickered, and his body...twitched, the movement strange and unnatural. "Burn your sand to hell!" he snarled. His muscles convulsed again, just slightly, and the anger vanished as unnervingly as it had appeared. "In fact, the suspension could use some work on that miserable piece of junk you call a diplomatic car. I nearly developed a hernia on the ride over. And you being famed for your hospitality...for shame, Edgar."

His voice drawled in boredom, no sign of the outburst evident. A finger on his right hand began twitching sporadically.

Terra turned to Locke, eyes wide. "What's wrong with him?"

He shrugged, unconcerned. "There're a number of theories floating around out there. Who knows? He was the first recipient of Magitek infusions, back before the bugs were rooted out. I don't imagine that could be good for a person. Whatever the cause, most of us agree on the effect: that he's stark raving mad. They say he occasionally enjoys prettying himself up like a clown, which you already know firsthand. If that isn't solid proof of lunacy, I don't know what is."

Ah. So he _was_ the source of her clown hate.

Locke frowned, and amended, "His madness is the dangerous sort, though. Very, very dangerous. Anyone who writes him off as your everyday nutcase will shortly find himself pushing up daisies."

Edgar didn't appear to have noticed the outburst at all, and Terra gained a new appreciation of his skillful self-control. "I apologize for any discomfort you may have experienced. As I'm sure you are aware, the Navy's aggressive apprehension of merchant ships between South Figaro and the Southern Continent is making trade very difficult. Replacement parts for the carriage were due weeks ago, but now may never arrive, I fear." His voice was buttery smooth.

"By 'aggressive apprehension,' I believe you _really_ mean 'variable antiterrorism measures.' Don't you, Edgar? We don't want those Returner scum running pell-mell unchecked across the world. Do we, Edgar?" His lips widened into a sudden, hungry grin; in the next instant, his face was unnervingly blank. Terra's stomach churned.

"And now. Where is the girl."

Even the whiplash change of subject failed to visually unseat Edgar, much to his credit. "Girl?" he repeated, voice touched with just the right amount of bewilderment. "There are more girls out here than grains of sand. I'm afraid I don't know who you mean."

"THE GIRL!" Kefka shrieked. Alarmed, Terra stumbled backward into Locke, who gripped her shoulders reassuringly, face now grave.

The General's head jerked spasmodically to the side, then back again. His pale eyes were calm once more, expression almost friendly. "Though your dalliances with the ladies are legendary, to be sure, I'm _certain_ even _you_ would remember this one. Edgar. Pretty red dress, long legs, and...ohhhh, yes. Green. Hair." He sang the last two words, voice terrifyingly playful.

The fear overtook her, despite Locke's reassuring presence. This man..._creature_...was insane. There was no humanity in those eyes. This was the man who had held her soul in his twitching hands, who had made her into his own personal plaything. What had he made her _do?_ Breath hitching in her chest, she felt destructive forces forming against her palm, unbidden.

Edgar was speaking, but Kefka, down below, slowly turned his head.

Terra exhaled rapidly, eyes wide. Matter danced and crackled at the subatomic level, warming her fingertips.

Kefka's eyes trailed deliberately upward, ranging along the stones like invisible bloodhounds until they reached the galley. There they froze, boring into her through tapestry and stone. A slow smile stretched his lips into a ghastly parody of cheer. She couldn't look away, frozen in that impossible gaze. Her breath stopped altogether.

Locke's urgent hand on her arm broke the spell. "We need to get out of here. Right now." His eyes were wide with a fear of forces he didn't understand, but intuitively realized were dangerous beyond his own means of comprehension. Terra was only too eager to comply. Hand in hand, they burst from the room and darted down the stairs. They ran as if Kefka were cackling maniacally at their heels. Locke led her deep into the underbelly of the castle, through twisting corridors and cluttered storerooms. Soon she could no longer differentiate east from west, or even point toward the direction they had come from. They ran on regardless. Finally he pulled them up short at a thick metal door installed with an electronic keypad. He rapidly punched in a series of numbers and it swung ponderously open. The instant the space was wide enough, they slipped inside. Locke repeated his series of keystrokes on the other side and, with a groan, the door ground to a halt, changed direction, and slammed closed.

For several moments, all Terra could hear was their harsh breathing, echoing in the dark, and her own heartbeat thundering through her head. Then Locke stirred, flipping on a switch. Her pupils protested at the sudden onslaught of light, but after blinking away the stars, she looked around to discover they were locked away in some sort of treasure vault. She had always imagined such a place to be awash with coins, priceless artifacts strewn everywhere and strings of jewels to be dug from beneath gold piles like clams on a beach – but Edgar's strongroom was, in fact, quite tidy. The coins seemed to be locked away in neatly-stacked, featureless chests, while the heirloom armor stood in rows, tucked safely away from dust and wear beneath thick white sheets. Shelves of ornate relics and intricate figurines disappeared into the darker shadows of the far end.

Locke slumped into a sitting position against a wall, his expression distant. Terra sat carefully beside him, watching him timidly. She waited for him to begin the incessant string of ludicrous thoughts and observations that were his trademark, but he remained silent. Finally, she reached out to touch his knee. Startled, she realized he was shaking, ever so slightly. "Locke, are...are you okay?"

Rolling his head to look at her, his eyes finally focused. "He saw us. Or you. I don't know how, but somehow he knew you were there."

Terra didn't know how to reply, so she stayed quiet. She pulled her jacket more tightly against her chest, hoping to block out some of the creeping chill of the subterranean levels. The hem of her white, knee-length nightgown, peeking out from underneath, was streaked with dirt. Somewhere she had lost a slipper.

Locke continued. "I've seen a lot of strange things in my travels, and especially in my dealings with the Empire. I'm not a stranger to Magitek and what it can do. But that...that was unnatural. There are forces at work here that I don't understand. Somehow he saw you. Terra, I never should have taken you there." Tilting his head back against the cold stone wall, he shut his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Locke." She knew it was her fault, both for attracting the madman's attention and for placing herself in such a vulnerable position to begin with. The old familiar guilt, the one that reminded her of the way her very existence placed others in danger, wormed its way back into her heart.

His eyes opened and he treated her with a wan smile. "It's not your fault, Terr."

She rolled her eyes at his boundless loyalty. "Is Edgar going to be okay? You don't think Kefka has...hurt him, do you?"

"Edgar has his bodyguards to protect him, and he's not exactly helpless himself. I'm...not sure what happened up there, but even so, I don't think Kefka will risk open fighting without direct proof of your presence." Uncertainty seeped into his voice, but impatiently he pushed it away. "As long as you're down here, he can't get to you without going through a heap of trouble. And if he does...well, there are other ways out of this vault besides the front door. The best we can do for Edgar now is stay as hidden as possible."

Locke presented his reassurances casually, sounding much more like his usual self. But she could hear his disquiet, as well as a deep, gnawing worry for his longtime friend. The encounter with Kefka had shaken him to the core. Even so, to keep their minds off the unknown and the stifling timelessness of the vaults, he gamely attempted to reengage her in a round of I Spy, which she halfheartedly joined. After a third sequence of guessing the same piece of gaudy, jewel-encrusted, sixth-century armor (the only one visible after a portion of the sheet had fallen off), Locke finally stood. Clambering over boxes and ornate writing desks, he disappeared somewhere into the dusty corners of the vault.

"What are you doing?" Terra called toward the general sounds of rummaging.

"Looking for the extra way out," his muffled voice returned. A heavy crash punctuated his statement, followed by a string of creative swear words. Picking her way carefully around a set of life-sized marble sculptures, she craned her neck around a tall shelf of artifacts, only to be greeted by the sight of Locke's disembodied feet. Then those, too disappeared, as he slithered his way through the absolutely claustrophobic space beneath a row of shelves. All she could hear for a while was clicking, scratching, and the occasional muttered irritation, followed by a triumphant crow of victory. The shuffling and slithering noises resumed, and Locke's head popped out from beneath the shelves, looking very much like a lone, overgrown dustbunny.

"Found it!" he grinned.

"You...are a mess," she stated, eyeing the dirt caking his face and matting his hair. "And...there's a massive spider on your shoulder."

The wild flailing of limbs that followed was violent enough to bring down the entire row of shelves. Terra gasped and dove beneath the nearest desk as half the contents of the room imploded in a horrendous, earth-shaking crash. Dust and what had once been priceless relics mushroomed thickly through the vault. Terra made herself as small as possible as the various rumblings and crashings continued, each more nerve-wracking than the last, but eventually the mayhem died out. Silence ensued, punctuated only by several miscellaneous clamors and the tinkling of broken glass.

She timidly peered around the base of the desk. "Locke? Are you okay?"

" 'Mm fine!" his voice called from somewhere beneath the rubble, much more cheerfully than the situation warranted. A pile of debris shifted and a very bedraggled treasure hunter crawled out. "Hate those things," he declared. "I can handle the little guys, but when their legs are long enough to tickle you from your bedside table at night and still avoid your reflexive smash, all without moving a muscle – that's where I draw the line."

"Well congratulations. I believe it's dead," she stated flatly.

Stumbling over a miraculously still intact urn, Locke turned to view the destruction. "Huh," he said. "Well, at least we can get to the door now."

"It's blocked by a four foot pile of Edgar's royal treasures."

Locke winced at the reminder of his friend's impending displeasure, but brightened just as quickly. "He's got plenty more where that came from. Dug some of 'em out of the caves and brought 'em back here myself. Now, fortunately for us, the door swings outward. Behind that is a hallway that leads off to the elevator that takes you to the underground tunnels. So now our escape route is set, if we need it."

"We may soon enough. I think that noise was loud enough to wake Edgar's dead ancestors."

They both paused for a moment to listen. But the only sounds that echoed through the underground hideaway were their measured breathing and the occasional clamor of dying valuables.

Eventually they relaxed and returned to their vigil. The hours plodded away slowly, and despite the momentary diversion, their mood threatened to sink back into bleakness. On occasion Locke would stand and march purposefully toward the keypad by the door, but thought better of it each time and returned to pacing about. Terra began idly examining a set of beautiful carved figures she found tucked away in a small chest. One depicted a sleek, unearthly blue lady; the other some sort of hunched, reddish, muscular demon with long curving horns. The figures looked very old. She replaced them carefully and nervously wondered how long they would wait until Locke felt it safe to leave. Her empty stomach complained audibly about its neglect.

He had just begun attempting to entertain her with what he claimed to be "real life ghost stories" from some place called the Phantom Wood when voices began outside. Locke froze, every muscle rigid. Terra held her breath, ears straining. The words were indistinguishable, but voices could be heard calling back and forth. A search party, apparently, but impossible to identify as friend or foe. Locke, however, was gliding to his feet, his stance that of a threatened wolf, a trained killer. She could almost imagine the hackles standing upright on the back of his neck.

"Let's go, Terra," he murmured, backing up as he guided her alongside him, never removing his stare from the steel door. As quietly as she could, Terra stepped through the debris, but her legs kept getting tangled in ruined shelves and she cut her bare foot on a shard of pottery. Locke, for his part, may as well have been one of the ghosts he had only just described, for all the noise he made.

The had only just reached the antiquated back door Locke had uncovered when the telltale sound of electronic keystrokes floated faintly through the wall. Locke whipped out a knife and shoved her behind him. Frantically she scrabbled at the handle and pushed. The hinges, rusted nearly all the way through, groaned and screeched at the disturbance. But Terra's strength was borne of desperation; planting her shoulder against the cold, rough surface, she shoved with all her might. With a final shriek of protest, their exit flew open. But by then the heavy safe door had reached the culmination of its swing. Flashlight beams came to rest on them from the dim corridor beyond.

"What in the goddesses' names have you done to my vault?"

The voice was strained and disbelieving, but very much Edgar's. Slumping against the wall, Terra laughed in relief.

Strange. Not even a week earlier, she hadn't known that she _could_ laugh.

"Edgar!" Locke exclaimed, a grin lighting up his grimy face. He plowed heedlessly back through the rubble toward the king, whose eyes fixed in vague horror on the evolving demolition of his treasury. Unconcerned, Locke threw his arms around his friend, who adopted a look of pained resignation. Patting him grudgingly on the back, he pushed the treasure hunter gently away and then sighed at the Locke-shaped dirt print on his elegant clothes. Terra noticed he now carried some sort of large automated crossbow at his side.

"I was beginning to worry he'd offed you up there," Locke confessed.

Edgar turned to the small group of guards standing behind him and signaled them away. All returned to their duties but the Chancellor, who, stoic as ever, entered the room and carefully began sorting through the debris. Locke, meanwhile, retreated to help Terra pick her way carefully back to the mouth of the vault.

The king returned his attention to the thief. "For a second, I thought he would try. One moment we were exchanging pleasantries – as pleasant as a person can be when it comes to that man – and the next he's gone off the deep end. He stared up at the galley and began cackling like a lunatic. You were up there, I assume?"

"Yeah. We saw it all, right up until the cackling." Locke's face went slightly pale with remembrance. "Somehow he knew we were there, Edgar. There's no way he could've, but he did. It was almost like he was...sniffing us out."

"I had noticed that too." The king's face creased in worry. Both men glanced at Terra, then quickly looked away. She stayed mute, pretending to be absorbed in examining a lock of hair.

"In any case, the amusement ended soon enough and he hopped back into sanity – as he'll do – long enough to dish out a few barely-veiled threats. Then they all left, thank the heavens. We've been dashing around bolstering security ever since and hunting for you two. Nobody knew you had gone up to the galley, so we checked all the other safe rooms first. Finally I stopped to imagine it all from your perspective – as unpleasant an experience as that was—" he casually dodged Locke's fist, " – and we figured it out from there. By the way, you look like you crawled out of a vacuum cleaner bin."

Locke shrugged. "You should clean out your safe rooms more often. So what are we going to do now? Kefka seemed to know Terra is here. Even if he was just playing his usual "Where's My Mind?" games, today was much too close a call for comfort. Not to mention they showed up at your doorstep days before we were expecting them."

"You could send me away," Terra interjected, tired of being talked about as if she wasn't standing right there. Both men started and looked slightly guilty.

Edgar recovered quickly. "All in good time, my lady, all in good time. If we do send you away, it will be for your own safety, not because we don't want you here. Locke would go with you, of course. We should get a message out to Banon, anyhow."

Locke nodded. "Terra and I can set out the day after tomorrow."

"We'll discuss it with the Chancellor tonight. In the meantime, I imagine you would both appreciate a bath. Terra, how are you feeling?" he asked, suddenly seeming to recall the havoc a front-row Kefka sighting may have wreaked on her memories.

"I'm hungry and cold. And my foot is bleeding."

This sent Locke into near convulsions of concern; the only thing that kept him from swooping her up into his arms and carrying her back to their rooms were her adamant promises of violence. It felt good to peel off the dirty nightclothes she'd been wearing for half the day now, and soak the chill from her body in a hot bath. Life in the castle returned more or less to normal, if one ignored the increased jumpiness of the guards and the casual installation of very large defensive weaponry. She, Edgar, and Locke engaged in light conversation over lunch, and the sun shone brightly as if the dark would never come.

But even the hot water and warm food in her belly couldn't dissolve her fears. That night she dreamed of fire again, accompanied by the now-familiar tune of a man's insane, horrid laughter.

And then, her nightmares came to life.


	4. Chapter 2

_A/N: Concerning Chapter 1 – So, I realize in regards to Terra and co., I've kind of left you all hanging – and for that I do apologize. When I began this thing, it was never with the intention of turning it into a traditional novelization. Instead, I wanted to skip around (though still in chronological order), dipping into the plotline here and there to see what liberties I could take with the story and characters. As far as what occurs after Terra, Locke, and Edgar escape Figaro Castle, it's been written a million times, and by better authors than myself. I still more or less consider her the main character of this thing, though, so she'll come back, I promise. (Assuming any of you were all that concerned to begin with.)_

_Anyway, I hope you still enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated. _

**Chapter 2, Part I.**

Somewhere in the wet and misty foothills near the kingdom of Doma, a monk and an assassin sat hiding in some bushes, arguing.

"That's the worst idea I've ever heard," Shadow declared in his typical monotone.

"Come on, Shadow," Sabin insisted, frowning. "We'll never have an opportunity like this again!"

"_You_ will never have an opportunity like this again," Shadow corrected.

Sabin huffed and peered carefully through the foliage, swiping at a tiny slug that had been happily exploring his neck. The motion knocked free a shower of chilled water droplets from the greenery above, soaking both the men crouched beneath it. But that was okay; between this past week spent floating the inescapable canyons of the East Lete and another ten days wandering the sodden, damp, misty lands of the Eastern Continent with no company but a taciturn ninja and his killer dog, Sabin was seriously considering taking up a career in limnotics.

Planting his elbows deeper in the mud, he inched forward, craning his neck. Down in the valley, only a hundred feet or so below where they hid, Doma Station – the Empire's northernmost military base – bustled with activity. Several more guards appeared to have been posted along the main gate since yesterday, and many of the troops jogged from task to task – a sure sign that, somewhere, major events were in motion. The occasional large transport rumbled in or out, but as far as Sabin could tell, no Magitek armor patrolled the camp. This in itself wasn't unusual – Magitek was rather expensive to produce, and generally deployed on special assignments only. Or so the trade gossip went.

Scanning the ruckus below one last time, Sabin wriggled his way back through the foliage, rolling onto his side to regard his companion. Even crouched in the mud as he was, with water from the light, misty rain beading on his gear, the black-masked assassin sometimes made Death itself seem as foreboding and depressing as a fuzzy lamb. This meant that as far as travel partners went, he rather failed in the companionable department. He certainly wasn't the type who would agree to snap a photo of you flashing your touristy victory sign in front of Doma Castle. And most days Sabin found himself having to play both parts of their conversation. But he just couldn't help but like the man. What was it Shadow had said, the very first day they met? Ah, yes. _The Reaper is always just a step behind me._ So terribly morose! Sabin chortled quietly at the recollection.

The masked face turned slowly to regard him, eyes black and fathomless.

Sabin choked and quickly smothered his smile. He tried to look serious. "So how about it, Shadow? We'll sneak in there, snoop around a little, gather some information, and tiptoe back out. Nothing could be easier. Come on, what do you say?"

"No."

Blast. "Look, it's for my brother," he tried. "He's probably worried sick about me right now. I can't just go back empty-handed after putting him through that. The Empire's up to no good – I mean, moreso than usual – and we need to find out what that is. _Plus,_ it's on the way to Doma. Even if somebody suspects us, we'll just hop on over to the port and be out in the open seas in no time!"

The man continued to gaze at him in silence, water dripping rhythmically from the point of his hood.

Sabin sighed. What did it take to convince someone as unexcitable as a rock wall? Then something occurred to him. "You'll remember that my brother is a king," he hinted, trying for casual.

Nothing. Sabin had met gravel more expressive.

"...And, he's rich." He wasn't _entirely_ sure this was true. But they'd been well enough off as children, and Edgar's wardrobe certainly hadn't been lacking in finery back when they were reunited – had it only been a few weeks ago? – on the cliffs of Mount Koltz. It was worth a try, anyway.

"Ten thousand gil," Shadow replied, voice impassive.

Sabin frowned, hesitating. He may have done his fair share of world travel, but that didn't mean he was necessarily up to speed on things like commerce and finance. Monks rarely found use for contrivances as worldly as money. He thought for a moment. As a child, ten thousand gil had seemed like a fortune. But then, anything seemed like a fortune to a kid. And besides, ten years worth of inflation had transpired since then. Edgar probably spent more now on baubles for his girlfriends.

Decided, he smiled broadly. "Friend, you've got yourself a deal."

Shadow nodded, and his entire posture changed. Sabin wasn't sure what had possessed the man to tag alongside him up to this point, and he had never asked. But now it was a business arrangement. Ignoring the nagging feeling that perhaps he should have possibly at least _tried _to barter that price down, Sabin sat up as well, carefully making sure his bright blond hair didn't poke above the bush and into view of any binocular-wielding sentries.

Shadow faced him. "Have you broken into an Imperial base before?"

"Nope!" Sabin brightly replied.

"Have you broken into any sort of guarded establishment at all?"

He scoffed. "Of course not."

The dark man eyed him. "Ever worn a disguise?"

Sabin spread his arms, displaying his bare, muscular torso and simple baggy pants, and shrugged. "What you see is what you get. I try not to wear much of anything if I can help it."

There was the barest of pauses. Sabin was shocked to hear what sounded, suspiciously, like a hint of a sigh.

Shadow tried another tactic. "Show me your best salute."

Sabin perked up. _This_ one he could do. Maybe the hours upon hours of military drills, etiquette classes, and boring dinner functions his father had subjected them to had been worth something, after all. Sitting up as straight as he dared, he snapped his hand to his forehead in sharp acclaim, the motion returning to him naturally even after all these years.

If it had been possible to see Shadow's lips through the dark mask he wore, Sabin got the strange feeling they might be pursed in a thin, tight line. "Excellent form, and absolutely perfect. If our intent was to _get caught_." He emphasized the last two words softly and with just the barest hint of expression.

Sabin frowned. "What was wrong with it? I practiced hard at that in my youth!"

"It was the salute of a homegrown Figarian. Imperials touch the eyebrow, not the forehead. You would have advertised our illegitimacy even to the greenest of recruits."

"Ah," Sabin nodded. Well, that explained a lot. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Matron's diplomatic relations lessons.

"In addition, you're going to have to wear a shirt."

Sabin sighed. "All right, I can deal with that. It's a tad chilly out here, anyway. Look, just so you don't think I run around like this all the time, I _would_ be wearing a shirt, but it got covered in octopus slime."

Silence blared between them, a property that Sabin, up until this point, hadn't been aware it could display. The black eyes regarded him flatly. Then, apparently, their owner decided to pretend he hadn't spoken at all. "And finally...do you understand what that means?" He tilted his head, ever so slightly, in the direction of the turbulent Imperial camp, somehow managing to make even that diminutive motion appear ominous.

Sabin frowned, cracking his knuckles as he considered the question. "What, the fact that there are so many troops running around in a base that's normally min-manned? I had thought that odd as well. My guess is that they're getting ready to mobilize against Doma. I figure something major must have happened since I got separated from my brother."

Shadow nodded slightly in what Sabin fondly imagined might be approval. "Yes. They mobilized last week. Doma has been under siege for six days."

Sabin gaped. "Why didn't you tell me that earlier?"

"You never asked."

"I told you I was planning on traveling to Doma for passage back to Narshe!"

Shadow twitched his shoulders in a shrug.

"Ahh, never mind. There goes that plan." He brightened. "Well, maybe we can at least find out what the Empire is planning on doing next. This is mighty far north, and a pretty blatant move on their part. Making open war on Doma..." He shook his head. "Between this and what happened to South Figaro, I suppose Narshe would be next on the list, logically. You...don't think they're actually going to try for the entire Western Continent, do you?"

The black eyes regarded him coolly. "Your very own kingdom is occupied, its capitol in hiding and officially considered in open rebellion against the Empire, thanks to that stunt your brother pulled. Doma will be the last great kingdom to fall. You tell me what will happen next."

Sabin raised an eyebrow, considering the man thoughtfully. "Why Shadow, you almost sound as if you care."

The coolness chilled to subzero. Sabin felt goosebumps break out across his skin. He glanced down in interest to see if the raindrops on his arm had hardened into ice. "Never make that mistake, monk," the ninja grated. The voice wasn't angry, just...dead.

Sabin raised his hands entreatingly. "Sorry, sorry. No offense intended. So what now?"

Shadow didn't answer. This was unsurprising, as he'd almost heard more of the man's voice in these last five minutes than the entire past week. Instead, he turned and ducked into the shelter of the woods, as graceful and stealthy as his namesake. Sabin shrugged and followed, keeping his head low until the wet, heavy pine boughs blocked him from view.

The dim silence of the forest closed around them as protectively as a mother hen's wings, the tall, dense trees sheltering them from the ocean winds that gusted up the valley, as well as the constant misting rains and prying Imperial eyes. Even as Sabin shook the water from his hair, Shadow was already halfway up the hill, barely disturbing the crowded carpet of ferns as he went. Sabin paced agilely along behind, leaping rotting logs and dodging hidden sinkholes with hardly a glance. Half closing his eyes, he opened his mind and senses to the myriad of life around him and began running through his mental kata. As he did, sounds and smells sharpened, awareness heightened. Sweet pine, earthy mud. A trillium bed somewhere off to the left. There – the focus of his attention narrowed, and through half-lidded eyes he spotted bursts of white erupting through the deep green of the underbrush on a nearby hillside. He noted it and loosed his focus, allowed his senses to range once again. Shadow up ahead, of course. Birds nests up above – three of them in the tall hemlock, alone, almost overwhelmed by the dank smell of moss. Sabin stretched his awareness even farther, straining. And yes, there it was – behind them, down in the valley, the cacophonous force of human life that made up the Imperial camp.

As he moved his mind through the exercises, patterns of life sprang into his awareness like pins on a map. Sabin used this heightened state of consciousness as a foothold to propel him deeper into his meditation. It was here he found the pure, untainted source of internal power Master Duncan had guided him, over the course of so many years, to recognize. Here were his Blitzes. Eyes almost completely closed, Sabin now relied on his other senses alone to guide his body through the wood as his mind quested the depths of this internal well.

There were his Pummel and Suplex. And there was his Aura Bolt, realized in its physical form for the first time during his fight with Vargas. Had been used to deal his former friend's death blow, in fact. Sabin turned away from it and concentrated on the vague silhouette of an idea wreathed in flame. Grasping hold of it gently, he attempted to coax it out – to ease it into being in the physical world. But the ghostly flames slipped from his mind's grip, as elusive as ever.

Mentally he shrugged and let them go, allowing his attention to wander instead to the crisis in Doma. Though most of his friends – and perhaps even his brother – assumed he had devoted these past ten years solely toward a life of mystical religious training and general hermitage, this was not the case. Well, it wasn't _entirely_ the case. Master Duncan had frequently sheltered passing tradesmen in their classroom up near the peak of Mount Koltz. He offered them warmth, food, and a place to rest and asked for nothing in return. Yet the traders paid anyway – as Master Duncan knew they would – in the form of information: rumors, tragedies, natural disasters, economics, world politics, and, overall, an accounting of the play of the powerful. The Master made sure he and Vargas listened well, always asking them, the following morning, to report one thing they had learned.

Sabin had always listened. Soon he'd learned to read the stories that were hidden between the lines – an ability he'd never quite mastered back home in Figaro (Edgar, meanwhile, had taken to it immediately). Occasionally they would travel, remaining largely unseen but always observing. He'd watched as the Empire conquered and expanded. He'd seen atrocities committed in the name of peace. He'd noted the establishment of the Returner base in the Sabil Mountains, and witnessed the ever-increasing subjugation of his homeland. He'd seen all these things, read the unspoken words, and committed it all to memory.

In time, under Master Duncan's patient tutelage, he had learned to read the moods of the land itself. Eventually, he came to understand how to harness its power. And he watched as Vargas changed. Vargas, his training partner and friend, who thought people with abilities such as theirs shouldn't be hiding themselves away in mountaintops. They should be out helping, he'd said at first, anger and frustration barely contained. Soon, however, "helping" became "ruling." These people needed someone powerful to show them the way! Vargas proclaimed. And it was then that Sabin knew whose way had really been lost. Yet he did nothing, hoping his friend would eventually remember his purpose.

Now Master Duncan – the man he respected and loved like a father – was dead. So was Vargas. Little good waiting and hoping had done for Sabin.

And so, even before the deaths, he couldn't help but share some of Vargas' sentiments – the less tyrannical ones, anyway. Though he had long ago banished the worst of his guilt over his abandonment of Edgar and their kingdom, a new restlessness had set in. He wanted to _help_. It was time to finish his training, to return to the kingdom where he belonged. The Master counseled patience, and Sabin dutifully practiced it. He continued to learn, buried himself even deeper in his studies – but nothing else seemed to change. He carried on, trusting that his master held some grand plan for him, that he would soon begin the rigorous training leading to the final test that would prove Sabin fit to take on the title of Master, himself. A Master, but not the successor – that right, of course, had been reserved for Vargas, favored student and son. Sabin understood and accepted that. What he needed was closure, completion; then, finally, he would be free to return to where he belonged – defending Figaro, at his brother's side.

Now, would he _ever_ be able to consider his training complete? Had he failed in some way? Was that why the Master had always seemed to evade preparing him for that final test?

_Well, you've got what you wanted, you lunkhead,_ he thought wryly to himself. _You've been reunited with Edgar, and you're out helping. So stop feeling sorry for yourself._

Sabin sighed and drifted back to the present, returning to his kata. Concentrating, he focused on the padding hop of rabbits' feet in a nearby burrow. Moving into the trees, he attempted to pick out individual strains from the many layers of birdsong. Laced among them were the heady scents of mushrooms, moss, and...wet dog?

Wrinkling his nose, Sabin dissolved the meditation. His concentration burst and the sharpened sights, sounds, and smells around him melted into a dim sort of normalcy.

Interceptor emerged from a briar patch off to his left, a dead hare clamped in his massive, graying jaws. Fur soaked in rainwater and tangled in burrs, the enormous beast turned to regard him with straightforward brown eyes.

"Hey there, old boy," Sabin greeted him. "You stink, you know that?"

Interceptor cocked his head, then padded up alongside him. Sabin had just begun to reach out for a scratch behind the ears when the mammoth canine shook himself vigorously. He cringed as dirty water erupted through the air, drenching his already-chilled skin and spotting his loose pants with mud.

"You did that on purpose!" Sabin scolded, rubbing water from his eyes. Now he could _taste_ wet dog. "You're a real piece of work, you know that, mutt?"

Interceptor actually _grinned_ at him, rabbit and all.

"Interceptor." Shadow's soft whistle floated back at them from up the hillside. The dog's ears perked to attention and he darted after his master, leaving deep indentations in the forest floor.

Sabin hurried to catch up. The slope had steepened noticeably, but his trained muscles hardly noticed. Interceptor began crunching on his rabbit as he trailed along beside his master, a rather impressive demonstration of multitasking for a dog, Sabin thought. Around them the already dismal light of the rainy wood had begun darkening, but still the assassin loped along.

"Soooo...where're we going?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. Shadow didn't disappoint, failing to even so much as glance his way. He shrugged it off. "You know, this terrain's a lot different from the stuff I'm used to. Sure, Mount Koltz was a lot taller and colder than these nubby little things, but at least we saw the sun up there, you know? I don't know about you, but I haven't felt dry in weeks. No wonder Domans are so grim and serious. Man, do I ever miss the desert right now. You ever been to the Figaro Desert, Shadow?"

The mercenary didn't reply. Undeterred, Sabin continued. "It was really crazy seeing my brother again. Really great, actually. We were separated for ten years, you know. He looked so noble and kingly, just like our father – even with that ridiculous Gerad disguise he runs around in. He's really done a good job with the kingdom, just like I knew he would. He even _talks _like a king. I bet Mother would have been proud." He lapsed into silence for a moment, poignant, wistful memories overtaking him. "I hope they'd be proud of what I chose, too."

He paused, musing, but the silence didn't last long. "Oh, and Locke! I could hardly believe my eyes, when he randomly showed up on that mountainside with my brother. Last I saw him, he was a scrawny, scruffy little fifteen-year-old, coaxing Ed and me into all manner of trouble. Well, I guess nothing much has changed there, has it. What did you think of Terra? They mentioned that they'd bumped into you in South Figaro. She seems like a nice girl – a little bit quirky, but nice all the same. Pretty, too. I think Locke likes her. At least, he sure does go all mother hen protective when he's around her. I wonder whatever happened to that old girlfriend of his? Rachel, or whatever her name was. Maybe they broke up. Too bad – I really liked her the few times I met her. I'll have to ask Edgar about that sometime."

It was hard to tell in the dimming light, but Sabin, watching covertly from the corner of his vision, thought Shadow's eyes may have begun to flicker with just the tiniest bit of exasperation. Sabin grinned, exulting in even this minuscule demonstration of emotion.

"I really worry about South Figaro, though," he admitted, and felt his mood darken slightly. "I can hardly stand the thought of the Empire occupying my father's – brother's – city. Cluttering up the streets with their troops, terrorizing them with those Magitek machines at night, harassing and demoralizing the citizens...What do you think, Shadow? Do we have any hope against them? My brother and me and these Returners – do you think we can win against a force like the Empire?"

Shadow regarded him from the corners of his eyes, but didn't reply. He must have used up his word quota for the day earlier on the cliffside. Sabin let the matter drop, lapsing into a thoughtful silence.

Finally the ground leveled, though by now the wood had thickened and the evening darkened enough that Sabin could barely even see the man next to him, much less where they were going. He sent his senses out questing again, but even then still managed to step in a creek. Muttering, he shook the water off his foot and searched out safer ground.

When he looked up again, though, Shadow had come to a halt. He now stood in front of a large boulder wedged up against a rocky outcropping, wordlessly watching him. As Sabin caught his eyes, he turned and vanished behind the boulder. Interceptor followed, as did Sabin. But as he rounded the bend, neither mercenary nor dog were anywhere to be seen.

Sabin halted, considering. But before he could think for very long, a hand reached out and touched his foot. Only many years of rigorously-enforced self control kept him from jumping out of his skin, to be followed by death to his accoster via a well-placed foot. Muscles rigid and alert, Sabin looked down. Shadow, the last of the light reflecting off his eyes, peered up at him from a narrow cave nestled between the boulder and the shortened rock face – it was more of a slit in the ground, really – and, as if anticipating his natural reaction, had already backed well out of reach. Sabin grumbled. "I've got a name, you know, and my ears will go into disrepair if you don't start using your verbal skills soon. I'm too young to die of a heart attack like that."

Shadow eyed him. "In here," he said, then melted away into the blackness below.

Sabin dropped to the damp forest floor. Grunting, he wedged himself into the narrow fissure, batting away hanging roots and spitting out the dirt that showered his face and eyes. His shoulders were the most difficult part to squeeze through – he was forced to back out several times and start again from a different angle. How come Shadow's behemoth of a dog could fit through here, and he couldn't? Finally he managed to wedge his body past the worst of the rock by flattening onto his stomach and slithering his way in head first. This, of course, left him to plunge straight into the darkness in a rather vulnerable upside-down position. Gripping a handful of trailing roots, Sabin pushed off the wall with his arms and nimbly flipped around to land upright on the cave floor.

A warm, wet tongue lapped across his hand in the blackness, leaving his skin sticky with mud and slobber. Sabin yelped and leaped away, then sighed and reached out to ruffle the fur in what his heightened senses told him was Interceptor's general direction. It had taken several days to gain the animal's trust, even to the point of approaching him without receiving immediate, growled death threats. Shadow seemed to think that the beast had taken to him quicker than he should, however, if his raised eyebrows and disapproving looks were anything to go by.

Somewhere in the darkness echoed the sharp, distinct sound of a match being lit. A small patch of flickering light illuminated the mercenary's masked face, casting his eyes in strange, deep shadows. Then he crouched to the floor. Several moments later, a campfire struggled into life, protesting against the damp air. Sabin frowned. A fire in a tiny cave like this? As if the smell of a wet Interceptor weren't already bad enough, now they were going to asphyxiate from smoke inhalation. But as light and warmth spread through the room, he saw that the ceiling near Shadow's end of the room formed an inverted funnel – a sort of natural chimney that extended into darkness and presumably open air, eventually, judging from the fact that the little cave remained smoke-free. Furthermore, beyond the range of the firelight, natural crawlspaces appeared to open up near the floor, leading into blackness beyond. Sabin deduced that this cave must extend quite a bit farther than he had initially thought.

"Nice little place you've got here, Shadow," he remarked. "Looks pretty well lived in, too. You spend much time in the area?"

"Possibly," Shadow grunted, yanking a heavy chest free of its hiding place beneath a low outcropping of rock. Now that he knew where to look, Sabin noted quite a few more chests stowed away; some appeared to be very old. Most had obviously sat undisturbed for years. He whistled appreciatively, eyebrow raised. A cutthroat mercenary's personal treasure horde that he apparently never touched? Shadow became more interesting by the minute.

The mercenary cracked open the heavy lid. Sabin caught a glimmer of what appeared to be, sure enough, his and Shadow's combined weight in gil pieces. But the assassin slammed it closed and shoved the chest back into its hole. Dragging out another, he glanced inside. This time its contents seemed to satisfy, because he immediately heaved it the rest of the way open and began hauling out what appeared to be packages of carefully-wrapped cloth. Turning to eye Sabin up and down, he shook out one of the bundles and held it up, measuring him with a glance.

"Uh...Shadow?" Sabin began, hesitatingly. "What are you doing with a stash of Imperial uniforms?"

Shadow tossed the uniform aside and continued rummaging. "You may have never found the need to break into an Imperial base. I have."

"Ah." Sabin watched as he dug around some more. "Hey! That was a Returner uniform! Does that mean you've had to break into Returner strongholds, too?"

Shadow turned to give him a long, level look before returning to his work.

"Right." Sabin chuckled nervously. "Sorry. Mercenary. I forgot." He toed the cave floor uncomfortably and tried not to dwell on which Returners the man may or may not have assassinated.

Unexpectedly, a bundle of cloth hurtled through the air and hit him in the chest. Fortunately, Sabin's accelerated reflexes swiped it from the air before it could hit the floor. "Try that on and don't get it dirty," Shadow instructed.

Sabin shook the uniform out. It was the basic brown of Imperial infantry, though the gold markings on the collar suggested an officer's rank. Sabin squinted in concentration, trying to recall his childhood lessons. "Captain bars?" he asked, dubious. "Isn't the idea _not _to stick out?"

"Captains maintain enough influence that they won't be questioned by most of the forces. However, they are still innocuous enough to fly under the radar of commanders and generals," Shadow informed him.

"Huh. Well okay." Sabin brushed as much dried mud off his skin as he could and began squeezing himself into the uniform. It barely fit around his shoulders. "You got anything bigger?" he complained, holding his arms uncomfortably away from his sides, the fabric stiff and confining.

Shadow turned to examine him, and Sabin could have _sworn _he smirked, just a little."No_._ That will have to do. Now work on your salutes. Officers reply to a salute by bringing their fingers to the eyebrow, then down again before the greeter drops theirs."

The mercenary continued to instruct him in the arts of espionage in that brief, curt manner of his. Sabin practiced his salutes and recited military courtesies until Shadow was satisfied (his only clue being that the ninja unceremoniously turned away and began busying himself in the corner with a stash of camping supplies). Sabin brushed his hands together triumphantly, pleased at the day's successes. Striding to the end of the room, he began laying out his bedding. It was part of an evening chore lineup that had become ritual over the past ten days, the two of them working together wordlessly, seamlessly, to prepare themselves for another night in the wilderness. A few minutes passed in a silence that could almost be called companionable. Interceptor settled on the floor next to his master and began licking his paws. Shadow reached out and absently scratched the beast behind the ears as he worked, the closest thing to gentleness Sabin ever witnessed in the man. Outside, rain drummed on the leafy carpet of the forest floor in earnest now, confirming the gradual transformation of their little cave from dank hole to cozy haven.

"Hey, Shadow?" Sabin asked eventually, voice thoughtful.

Shadow glanced at him from the corner of his eye as he stirred the fire.

"Why do you trust me with this place? I mean, it's obviously kind of important to you. But you've known me less than two weeks..." He trailed off, not entirely sure where he had been headed with that thought. Come to think of it, perhaps it hadn't been the best idea to remind a dangerous assassin who he was sharing his secrets with.

The sturdy stick that Shadow had been using as a poker paused in mid-motion, just for a second. Then he continued as if nothing had been said. Sabin wasn't surprised. His mind wandered to the insistent, whispered patter of the rain outside, and then beyond it, to his brother. Where was Edgar now? Had he made it safely to Narshe? So many years apart, and suddenly being together again...in some ways it was like they had never parted. In others, everything had changed. When would they get the chance to seal the rifts that time had rent between them?

Shadow stood abruptly, setting the poker carefully against the wall. Interceptor scrambled to his feet, tailing his master as he strode past the far wall to the crack in the ceiling that served as their entrance and exit. Most likely they were heading out to check the snares for this evening's dinner.

But first, Shadow paused, partly turning to face him. Hesitantly, he took a breath, as if he were about to speak. Sabin blinked in surprise. Shadow was _never_ hesitant.

Then, he apparently thought better of whatever he had been about to say. Shimmying up the roots with the ease of a spider, Shadow disappeared into the blackened forest beyond. Interceptor followed, exiting the cave in a single, powerful bound.

Shrugging, Sabin stood and followed his companions out into the night.

**xxxxx**

They set out fairly early the next morning, before the sun had topped the eastern ridges. Not that there was much sun to be had; this day dawned as bleak and gray as all the previous. Sabin, armed with a faded canvas pack full of stolen uniforms and an assortment of miscellaneous tools and wires, was beginning to wonder if Doman dictionaries even included words for "sun" and "warmth."

At least the rain had stopped, for the moment – though, in the woods, leaves and pine boughs collected enough water during a downpour to keep it raining on a person for hours afterward. Early morning fog hung thick and dense in the wood, the moisture sitting heavily in their lungs. The ferny underbrush soaked them to the knee; if Sabin followed those stuffy, so-called "civilized" conventions that encouraged people to confine their feet in cumbersome shoes and socks, he'd be thoroughly miserable right now. Sure, his toes might get a little cold now and then in their lace-up sandals, but at least they were open to the air and he didn't have to slog around with a chronic case of trenchfoot. He stole a glance over at Shadow. The quiet man would never complain, but Sabin couldn't help but note the disdain with which the mercenary flicked away the occasional large splash of water that fell on his cloak from the foliage above. He smirked at the sight and inhaled a deep, satisfied breath, opening his senses to the land.

Sights, smells, and sounds tumbled into his mind, as usual. Even the taste of the air became more pronounced, and his feet felt the brush of each feathered fern. He cheerfully noted that if he pushed aside the immediate, overpowering smells of moss and mud, he could sense the pleasant fragrance of wildflower meadows beyond. It was easy to forget in such a dark and depressing place, but spring was in full swing across the northern hemisphere, and flowers and trees had managed to blossom even in this soggy land. Immersing himself in these sensations, Sabin ranged farther, his touch gentle and unhurried – past Interceptor snuffing through the bushes and deep into the soil itself, alive with insects and earthworms. Here he sank into the internal well of his Blitzes, searching for that elusive suggestion of flame. It had been growing in his consciousness as he ran through his daily kata – the physical exercises as well as the mental – gradually solidifying into something that was almost an idea. But he just wasn't quite there yet; nothing he had done had yet drawn it into its full realization.

Nevertheless, he could be patient. Carefully reaching into his well, he fed the flames, coaxed them gently to the surface. They flickered, but held.

Ahead of him, a young rhododendron bush burst into flame.

Shadow whirled around, metal suddenly glinting in a gloved hand. He stared at the blazing bush, tense and frozen.

"Not exactly what I was going for," Sabin sighed. The fire was puttering out already. The bush was simply too wet, and though the initial flames had looked impressive, he just hadn't been able to generate the necessary heat to feed them.

Shadow was staring at him with an intensity he had never seen in the man. Suddenly self-conscious, Sabin cleared his throat. "Soooo...I haven't told you much about my Blitzes yet, have I."

"No. You have not." The assassin's reply was flat. And rather menacing.

"Well, no better time for it than now, right?" He clapped the man cheerfully on the shoulder, earning himself a straight-up glare. Resuming his course down the mountainside, Sabin shifted the pack more comfortably against his bare back. "Seeing as we've still got this huge hike left to base and all. In my defense, though, I tried to tell you about it one day, but you gave me that look that was all 'I don't want to hear about you and your crazy religion,' so I had no choice but to change the subject to Edgar's most embarrassing moments," he concluded with a frank shrug of his shoulders.

Shadow didn't reply. In fact, his silence had become downright sinister. Sabin hastily got to the point. "Alright, so your ninjitsu probably shares the same fundamental techniques as what we practice." He glanced at the man's sleek black attire, and amended, "At least as far as basic martial arts are concerned. So I won't get into that right now. Where we start to get really flashy is in the Blitzes. They take forever to master, and a deep understanding of nature and our place in it – that's why a lot of people call us hermits. It's similar to what a lot of the animals out in the wilderness do. Back in ancient times they considered the beasts magical, but now we know they're really just using inherent abilities developed by their deep connection to nature. Something that humans weren't thought to be able to replicate. Well, turns out _that's_ not quite as true as everybody thought – the members of my religion are a prime example of the exception.

'Natural inborn talent plays a role in it, as well, though," he explained. "Some people could perfect the fighting arts and still never develop that integral connection with the land. Luckily, Master Duncan can usually figure out whether or not that talent exists pretty early on in the training cycle. Could, I mean." He frowned briefly at his lapse, but moved on, explaining to Shadow the best he could about the necessary meditation, the layers of consciousness one had to submerge oneself in before he could use or develop the Blitz. "As a result," he concluded, "battles are the most difficult environment in which to use a Blitz, requiring supreme concentration, focus, and calm."

Sabin paused, thrown by how much he had sounded like his mentor in that moment. Then he laughed heartily, causing Interceptor, who was padding along nearby, to leap and growl in surprise. "Listen to me! I sound like a stodgy old schoolteacher. Anyway, yeah. They're hard to use in a fight, but I can do it if I can get my focus right. What you saw back there was something in development. I'm not sure what it's going to turn out to be, yet, but part of the fun is finding out, right?"

Shadow didn't look too convinced by this alleged "fun," but replied anyway, much to Sabin's surprise. "Are there many of you?"

Sabin's cheer dissolved a bit, fading into a sort of background melancholy. "Master Duncan had other students before I came along, and even before he began training his son – but I don't know if they stuck with it or not. Or if they're even still alive. There's a small sect down near Maranda now that used to practice with our people, once upon a time. Back then, one of their guys had a falling-out with our founder and ran off to start his own monastery down south. I think these days they're headed up by a guy named Dadaluma – or at least, they were at some point. But then again, I also heard that he and his followers moved to Vector and started their own mafia-type crime organization, so..." He shrugged. "You know how colorful rumors will get. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure it was actually Locke who'd mentioned that last bit, so..." At a look from Shadow, he hastened on. "Anyway! From what I hear, they still use a lot of the same techniques, with a greater focus on the elements – wind, water, fire, etcetera. But their moral code is...lacking.

'So, friend. As far as I know, you could be traveling with the last living member of an extinct religion!" He threw out his arms and grinned, but it was half-hearted. A deep sadness settled into his chest, one he had been successfully staving off with distractions up until now. His arms fell to his sides and he began running through a simple exercise the Master had taught him early on, back when he was seventeen and homesick. Picturing the beloved rolling dunes of his homeland, he visualized himself kneeling, tracing out his fears in the sand. The moment he was done, he brushed them out, scrubbing until no remnant of the words remained and the sandy surface had reverted to the smooth, warm expanse of a land he loved. It was a simple trick, but one that Sabin had always found useful for dispelling strong, interfering emotions.

They walked in silence for a time. Sabin figured he had become more adept than most at reading Shadow's thoughts and moods, but at the moment the brooding mercenary was inscrutable. Most likely he was feeling uncomfortable about actively involving himself in Sabin's affairs as he had. Sabin smiled. _I see through you, friend,_ he thought. _You're not as unfeeling as you like to think._

Still, he didn't want the man to be uncomfortable. Rallying his enthusiasm, he attempted to revive the conversation. Maybe it would distract the ninja from whatever gloomy contemplations were coagulating in his head. "Terra, now. _She's_ a mystery. Her fire is one hundred percent all-natural just like mine, but it's _much_ stronger. Her abilities are a caliber of their own. Edgar and Locke used to think she was just another of the Empire's synthetic mages, like the three Generals, but as soon as they saw her blow away that Heavy Armor back in the desert, they knew it was something else altogether. Pure magic, Shadow, like in all the old legends. Just imagine that!"

Sabin shook his head in remembered awe, again appreciating the diminutive girl and her inbuilt weaponry. Not to mention her odd but strangely endearing personality. Those long legs of hers were rather nice, too. Maybe he _should_ find out if Locke had a thing for her, once matters settled a bit. Now _there _was an interesting thought...distracted, he almost didn't notice the fact that Shadow was staring at him again. And actually initiating conversation. Stamping down his amazement, he hurriedly returned his attention to his friend.

"Her magic is natural? Where is she from?" the mercenary demanded, his gaze intense.

Sabin frowned, slightly taken aback. Shadow had never shown a whit of interest in Terra in the past. But then again, he didn't think he'd mentioned the whole "magic" thing before, either. "Well, none of us really know, but I think the assumption is that she was born and raised in Vector. Why do you ask?"

Shadow's strange intensity almost seemed to freeze over and he turned away, silent. His body language seemed almost...angry, now. Anger in Shadow was rare to behold, but was nearly always self-directed. The poor man was a pit of troubled self-hatred, much as he attempted to pretend otherwise. In this case, Sabin realized, Shadow was likely berating himself for saying more than he should have, for giving away too much. Not that Sabin had gleaned anything at all from his question. He was a simple man, and simple men didn't obsess over hidden meanings in their friends.

"Hey look, Shadow, a clearing," Sabin noted, feeling it would be wise to change the subject altogether. "Maybe we can get a view of what's going on below."

Shadow nodded, curtly. Together they emerged from the cover of the trees, squinting in the brighter gray after so much time walking beneath the darkness of the forest. Interceptor sprinted ahead, tongue lolling in unfettered glee as he bounded off after a startled rabbit. They didn't worry about being spotted; with a party consisting of two highly-sensitized, trained martial artists and a monster canine, any unwelcome company in the area would have been detected long ago.

Sabin ambled out into the center of the clearing, its saturated grasses thick with mountain wildflowers. As he had predicted, the hillside here sloped steeply enough to offer them a view of the entire valley, all the way out to Doma and the sea. Facing west, as they were, the valley spread from the foot of their mountain range to a series of low hills far across the way, offering some protection from the seaborne furies beyond. Below them, hugging the foothills, the Imperial base continued to hum with activity.

Though, it seemed amplified, today – even moreso than before. Narrowing his eyes, Sabin focused on the tiny, antlike figures scurrying about the compound, watching the odd vehicle as it headed out to join the siege. The main road ran along a lazy river that flowed down the center of the valley, extending south into the kingdom of Doma where its water was processed and used as the citizens' primary drinking supply. Though the kingdom itself was too distant to represent much more than a blur on the backdrop of gray ocean and sky, Sabin knew from his youth that the river met thick, protective walls, inside which the city sprawled haphazardly out toward the coast. Along the seashore cliffs, towering above the bustle of human life, stood the massive fortress itself, its roofs and towers layered in terracotta tiles and curling gracefully into peaks. Strange stone beasts decorated every battlement, and exotic, stylized gardens filled hundreds of courtyards within. The Doman culture was an odd mixture of practicality and art, elegance and violence. Its people were as likely to practice war as they were calligraphy. Above all, however, they valued honor.

As a youth, Sabin had found them fascinating. In his earliest years of childhood he had often told his father that he wanted to be a Doman samurai when he grew up, until Matron finally took him aside one day and put _that_ foolishness straight out of his head.

"See anything?" Sabin asked Shadow, squinting as low, misty clouds drifted through the valley.

Shadow nodded. "More activity than usual. It may be difficult for us to get in by the way we had originally planned."

"Through the electric fence out by the abandoned maintenance hangars, right?" Sabin asked. Staring hard at the base, he tried to catch a glimpse of the hidden little area Shadow had described, but it was too far away, and the visibility poor. He shrugged brightly. "Well, nothing we can do but try, eh?"

Adjusting the pack more comfortably around his shoulders, he plunged back into the wood, whistling a rather annoyingly cheerful tune as he went.

They plodded on down the muddy slope, fording creeks, hopping logs, and occasionally stopping to pick themselves out of thorn patches. Shadow began leading them north, presumably so they could flank the base until they emerged on the wooded north side, which also happened to be minimally guarded. The gray light, which the verdant canopy had filtered into a deep, murky green, began to fade, but not because of the hour. Sabin smelled heavy rain on the air and brightened. Maybe the weather would send some of those surplus Imperials running inside so they could sneak through the fence like they had originally planned. Either way, it couldn't hurt their cause. Sabin didn't think his skin could possibly absorb another ounce of moisture; he was _part_ of the rain, now.

They were nearing another clearing when Shadow suddenly froze, muscles taut and ready, and fluidly melted into the cover of a tree. Sabin opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when he heard it, too: voices, still distant, but many of them, and the rumbling engines of military vehicles. Slowly, he retreated into a thick briar patch. A soft warning growl from nearby indicated Interceptor's presence, but then he, too, lapsed into silence.

Here they waited, crouching. Bodies combat-ready, ears straining, all three fighters attended the delay patiently. Finally Sabin determined that the voices weren't moving any closer. Though they _did_ seem to be shouting about something, the patterns in their tones indicated no particular alarm or aggression. Gliding to his feet, he emerged from the briars.

Shadow had apparently arrived at the same conclusion. Murmuring a soft command to his dog, he had already crept quietly ahead, glancing back briefly toward Sabin and motioning him forward. Together they advanced, picking their way carefully among the forest debris. Fortunately, the ever-present moisture made fallen twigs and branches pliant beneath their feet. A low roll of thunder masked movements that were already virtually inaudible. Sneaking undetected to the source of the commotion was almost elementary.

As it turned out, they appeared to be sharing this particular corner of the woods with a small squad of Imperial troops – about a dozen, Sabin estimated. An old dirt logging road here had been requisitioned by the Empire several years before and turned for their own personal use in supply transport – though why they had felt any need whatsoever to drive around in these remote, sodden mountains that led to nowhere was beyond him; probably it had something to do with Doman territory and the delicate politics of planting a military base exactly on the edge of it. Which Gestahl obviously wasn't feeling so delicate about anymore.

Regardless, troops were mobilizing along it now, even as they watched. Though, _mobilizing_ wasn't an entirely accurate word, in this case. Sabin imagined the road had probably been made of actual dirt at some point in the year, but winter drizzle and heavy spring rains had turned it into a quagmire. It was a fact that this particular group of Imperials was discovering firsthand. Two brown, bulky supply trucks struggled through the mud, flanked by a handful of troops attempting to shout them through to safety. The first truck had sunk to its wheel wells in the mire; mud-splattered grunts shoved and strained at it from behind as a sprinkling of officers paced around the fringes, swearing and shouting orders. Several smaller vehicles at the tail of the convoy appeared to grow impatient. Turning into the brush along the side of the road, their drivers bounced them on past the holdup, leaving the heavy transports behind. Those who weren't helping to push watched or milled about aimlessly. Rain began to fall, softly for now, but inciting a fresh round of oaths, shouts, and renewed efforts.

Sabin watched the organized chaos in mild fascination, remembering how rough and ready his father's military men seemed when they were out of the line of their leadership's scrutiny. Shadow, however, broke his reverie with a sharp nudge to his arm. Glancing at the ninja, who crouched next to him in a tangle of weeds, he followed the direction of the man's gesture. A pair of officers was leaving the road for the shelter of the wood, walking up the embankment directly toward them. Sabin tensed and hunkered deeper into the brush, sensing Shadow do the same.

The officers halted a bare ten feet away, ducking into the protective cover of an old stand of birch. Both removed their heavy helmets with visible expressions of relief and tossed them carelessly to the ground. Lighting up some cigarettes, they chatted away in casual conversation, idly watching the commotion below. Sabin relaxed his body and did his best to become part of the plant life around him, hardly daring to move or breathe.

"What a bunch of screw-ups," one of the men muttered in a heavy Vectoran accent – they were both lieutenants, Sabin ascertained after a moment of thought, and mentally patted himself on the back for his accomplishment.

"Yeah, Major Ronan is going to kill us when we show up late. Last week he threw a paperweight at me because the Commander kept me late at a meeting," the other lieutenant complained.

"He hit me upside the head for bringing him the wrong paper size," said Lieutenant A.

"He insulted my ma for no reason."

"He told _me_ that I'd be doing the world a favor if I went out to the front lines of the siege and threw myself on the sharp end of a katana."

"Okay, you got me there," Lieutenant B conceded. Then he continued, "I don't even see why they've all gotta cry about getting everything in order for the General's visit. It's nothing but a cluster every single time, and the lunatic doesn't even notice the effort. Then _we_ get sent out on these remote security details guarding _food _convoys, while the rent-a-cops get to hang around back on base, pulling the easy shifts and waiting on Kefka."

"_General_ Kefka," Lieutenant A corrected with a hiss. "What're you moaning for? I thought you didn't want anything to do with him."

"I don't, but it'd be great if I could get just _one day_ where my feet didn't look like they belonged to some washed-up floater at the end of it." (From the bushes, Sabin nodded emphatically in agreement.) "Anyway, you've gotta agree the guy is a piss-poor excuse for a leader. He's not even half the man that General Cristophe is. What is he even doing, snooping around up here anyway? It's General Cristophe's command, not his. One of the IAF guys told me they flew him out here personally from South Figaro. Why can't he just stay over there and leave us alone?"

"Mate, you'd be doing yourself a favor if you'd learn to just shut up and color," Lieutenant A grumbled, glancing around nervously. "You're gonna get us both tossed in the brig. They probably sent him out to help with the siege, that's all."

"I'm gonna hate to see what his definition of 'help' is," Lieutenant B muttered, but he trailed off into silence even so, leaning up against the wet tree bark and taking a long drag on his cigarette. The rain, which had grown heavier, now intensified to a blinding downpour. Neither officer made a move for further shelter, seeming resigned to their soggy fate.

Seconds later, however, the squeal of tires and a half-hearted cry of victory floated up from the road. The lieutenants perked up. "Sounds like it's time to go," Lieutenant B declared. Extinguishing their cigarettes and scooping up their helmets, the men jogged back toward the convoy, sliding carelessly down the embankment as they dove for the lead truck's cab. The beleaguered, mud-soaked grunts scrambled from their places behind the newly-freed transport and piled into the back; the rest of the caravan had already gone on ahead. Engines rumbled to life and both transports crept forward, windshield wipers flying in a vain attempt to keep up with the deluge.

Sabin hopped to his feet, ignoring the heavy drops that pelted his face, brimming with sudden excitement. "C'mon, Shadow! This is our chance!"

Ignoring the startled look in his companion's eyes, he charged down the embankment. With a curse, the ninja tossed a sharp command back into the woods, presumably meant for Interceptor, and then darted after him. Counting on the downpour to mask their movements, Sabin dashed straight for the open canvas shelter of the second supply truck, packed almost completely full of food but conveniently empty of troops. With a final burst of controlled energy, he leaped five feet into the air and lit on the floor of the truck bed, landing as softly and gracefully as a fallen leaf.

A muted thump beside him, more sensed than heard, signified Shadow's arrival. Sabin marveled at his stealth – whoever the ninja had trained under was obviously nobody to be trifled with. Both men moved farther toward the cab, scrambling over wooden crates and away from the driving rain that spattered into the open end of the bed. Plopping himself down on a box stamped "dehydrated beets," Sabin tossed their pack on the floor and began an ambitious crusade to squeeze the water out of his pants.

Shadow remained standing, arms crossed. _"What, _exactly, is this?_"_ he growled. Sabin looked up in surprise. The man positively _seethed_.

Feeling that his reflexively cheeky reply involving a detailed list of the truck's contents might result in the sudden lodging of a shuriken in a very uncomfortable place, he answered as honestly as he could. "Didn't you hear them, Shadow? Kefka _himself_ is on base! Not to mention General Leo. Fifty gil says these trucks will take us straight to them!"

Shadow's look was withering. "They are _supply _trucks. _Supplies_ go in a _warehouse._ _Generals_ do not."

Sabin listened in curious fascination – he didn't think he'd ever heard the man use so many verbal italics in such a short span of time. "Generals like to examine the supplies, though," he offered, hopefully.

"Generals have subordinates to perform that task. Generals attend sieges and strategy meetings. _Not _warehouses."

"Oh." Sabin was momentarily crestfallen, then perked up. "Well, you said yourself that there might be too much activity to get in where we originally planned. This will just take us closer to where we want to be. And we don't even have to crawl through any high-voltage fences to do it!" He leaned back and crossed his arms triumphantly.

The mercenary stared at him flatly. "The trucks are inspected."

Sabin tilted his head in puzzlement. "Erm, say again?"

"The contents of this truck, that we are sitting in, will be inspected before it is allowed through the gate."

"Ohhhhh," Sabin said. He shifted awkwardly. "Well, that's a bit of a problem."

The two men sat in silence, ruminating.

Then Sabin grinned and clapped his friend on the back. "Well Shadow, you know what they say."

Shadow's look indicated that he most certainly did not.

Sabin relaxed against a stack of powdered potatoes, smiling contentedly. "There's always a Plan B."

**xxxxx**

Somewhere deep inside Doma Station, two large supply trucks pulled into a neatly organized warehouse. Mud-splattered, uniformed troops piled from the lead vehicle. A frenzy of barked orders and general rushing about echoed from the walls as the unloading of both transports commenced. Eventually the last crate was stacked and the final soldier exited, slamming the heavy door behind him as he jogged out to meet with his friends at the chow hall.

From the undercarriage of one of the transports, a mud and oil-covered figure bearing the general shape of a human flopped to the ground with an explosive sigh of relief. Seconds later, a black-clad ninja appeared, untangling himself gracefully from the chassis.

Lifting his head from where it rested in a pool of mud on the concrete, Sabin regarded his friend with incredulity. "How is it, Shadow," he complained, "that you can ride five miles down a muddy forest road, in a torrential downpour, hanging from the undercarriage of a truck, and _still_ get off at the end as clean as a freshly-washed sheet?"

Shadow smirked, ever so slightly. "That is a secret privy to ninjitsu."

"I'm pretty sure you're just making that up." Figuring he should probably get to his feet, he attempted to roll onto his side – then groaned and collapsed back to the ground, staring up at the myriad of dirty tubes, hoses, and wiring that made up the transport's innards. "Yeah, that's not happening for a while. Ohhh, my poor abs."

"With all those muscles, one would think you could stick to the bottom of a truck indefinitely."

Sabin eyed him suspiciously, sure the ninja was making fun of him.

"So here we are," Shadow stated, "locked in a warehouse in the middle of the base, sitting beneath a truck. What is our course of action now?" He quirked his eyebrow in a manner that made it unnecessary to verbalize the several sarcastic comments he obviously wanted to make. Sabin heard them quite clearly as it was.

"Now..." Sabin paused, at a loss. Then he mustered all the enthusiasm available to him. "Now we eat!"

Shadow stared at him. "We eat." The statement was flat enough to put a humble pancake to shame. And he really needed to stop thinking about food. But it was exceptionally difficult with the smells of lunchtime at the chow hall drifting in from somewhere nearby, particularly after his long stay in the underbelly of an Imperial transport.

"You can't perform on an empty stomach," Sabin reminded him. Then he sighed. "Man oh man, I could really go for a sandwich right now. Or a blueberry muffin. Anything, really."

Shadow continued to stare at him. Sabin didn't think he'd blinked in quite some time now – probably another of those incomprehensible ninja skills. "It is highly fortunate that you've trapped us in a warehouse full of food, then," the black-clad man pointed out.

Sabin perked up. "You're right!" he crowed. "Shadow, you're the best! Now where did they put those dried beets?"

As he began to roll himself out from beneath the transport, though, the warehouse door swung open. Only their hair-trigger reflexes and the poorly-lit confines of the warehouse saved them from discovery. Sabin pulled himself back flat against the machine's belly, adrenaline racing; a flicker in the shadows near his legs indicated his friend had done the same. Slowing his breathing and calming his emotions, he reached out, pulling himself into his tiny Blitz universe. It was always more difficult when one was distracted, which was why Blitzing during a battle was the mark of only Masters and the most advanced students. Sabin _was_ an advanced student – had even been a Master hopeful – but even he experienced difficulties in executing a Blitz consistently. Filling his mind with peace, shutting out all worries, Sabin kept his subconsciousness in reach of his Blitz well while the rest of him stood ready for the situation at hand.

Sharp, brisk footsteps echoed on the concrete floor – five or six sets, from Sabin's judgment. Tipping his head back slightly, he was alarmed to see a pair of black boots heading straight toward them, the muzzle of a long rifle dipping down toward the floor. But the soldier barely paused before moving on. The steps receded somewhere into the back of the warehouse, joining others to fan out among boxes and crates. Finally they regrouped, filing past the truck and returning to the entrance.

"All clear, sir!" one of them called. "This building is secure."

"Thank you, Sergeant," a deep but soft-spoken voice replied. "Why don't you and your men go on and take a break for a while, get something to eat. I hear it's steak and potato day at the chow hall."

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant replied, gratefully. The squad filed out, the door closing firmly behind them.

"Honestly, Leo, you are so sentimental," a new voice declared. Sabin started, having missed the second man's entrance. "You're never going to get any respect like that. Fear and force. Now. _Those_ are the things these vermin respond to." The voice was lilting, playful, and sinister all at once – Sabin had never heard such a disturbing combination. The small hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Slowly, carefully, he tipped his head back and pulled himself closer to the end of the truck, trying to see more of the men than their feet.

The first man sighed. "That's not the way I work, Kefka," he replied wearily.

Sabin went rigid, a chill rippling across his skin. So _this_ was Kefka. He'd heard the stories, ten years worth of them. The rumors had grown darker as the years went on – an "accidental" death here, an obliterated town there. Then, of course, there were the inexcusable things he had done to Terra, and the attack on his brother and Figaro. This man had tried to _burn _his childhood home_._ If that weren't enough, he then had tried to kill Edgar! Sabin felt the placid sea of his thoughts begin to churn, and his fingers clenched around the metal frame of the chassis.

But no – he couldn't give in to such emotions. With a concerted effort, he calmed himself. Anger and vengeance had no place in the heart of a monk.

Justice, however, did. And the Goddesses help him if he didn't see it served by the end of this day.

Sabin returned his focus to the conversation, realizing belatedly that the soft-spoken man must be General Leo Cristophe, himself. Two of the Empire's three most famed generals, right here in the warehouse with them. Despite the gravity of the fact, Sabin couldn't resist pegging Shadow with a wildly triumphant look. The ninja, catching his expression, rolled his eyes minutely.

Kefka was cackling, a high-pitched, throaty sound that Sabin knew he wouldn't be able to scour from his psyche for quite some time. Maybe forever. "Oh, Leo," he sniggered. "I'm so sorry. Far be it for me to rob the goody from your two shoes."

"Look, Kefka," General Leo said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Just cut it to the chase. What do you want? Was it really so urgent that you had to tell me _right now_ instead of waiting five more minutes to reach Command?"

Sabin leaned forward just a bit more, craning his neck to see. Finally, they came into view: General Leo – tall, built, with the square jaw and determined look of every textbook military hero, a saber sheathed at his back. Rumor had it he was one of the greatest swordsmen in the world.

And then...there was Kefka. Sabin frowned. The man didn't _look_ insane...granted, some fashion advice from a well-meaning friend could possibly do him some good; additionally, he was viewing both generals from a rather awkward upside-down position, which always made a subject look a bit shifty. Other than that, though...

Wait. The eyes. Something in them simply wasn't right. And...was Kefka's hand twitching? Sabin watched, fascinated and disturbed.

"Oh, you and your _Command_," Kefka scoffed. He began pacing slow circles around the other general, hands clasped casually behind his back."What a boring lot. And all those puddles in the road...I simply couldn't abide them. No, Leo. Leo...Leo...Leo. I'm afraid this is a matter that cannot wait." Suddenly he stopped, and his eyes snapped into focus. Back straight, voice bored, he declared, "I will now be taking over command of this base."

For a moment, General Leo didn't react. Then he smiled, ever so slightly, and Sabin saw in sudden clarity the danger that lurked in this mild-mannered man.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he replied, still with that same tiny smile.

"Celes is dead," Kefka suddenly declared, as if he were commenting on a mildly interesting weather forecast.

The General's tanned face drained of color, his composure vanishing. "What?" he choked.

"Well, she will be by this evening, anyhow. But. The commander of South Figaro's garrison may have jumped the gun and had her executed already. He always did like to...get things done." His lips stretched into a rictus grin; an instant later, it collapsed into mock grief. "Poor little Celes. Beautiful little Celes. So sad. Such a _waste_." The last word was delivered in a parody of a pout.

With sudden, almost inhuman speed, Leo's arms snaked forward. Grabbing Kefka by his red and green lapels, he yanked him forward. "Kefka, what have you _done_?" he exclaimed, distraught.

"_She was a TRAITOR!"_ Kefka shrieked, abruptly boiling with fury. Beside him, a stack of crates burst into flame, and his entire body began seizing. Leo released him and stepped back, face suddenly impassive. With an unhurried calm, apparent even through his grief, his hand went to the saber at his back.

But Kefka calmed; the rage and tremors vanished, leaving behind only irritation. With an offhanded wave, he extinguished the flame in a crackling pillar of ice, cooling the ambient temperature noticeably. Sabin gaped at the open display of power. He had heard tales of what these mage knights were capable of, but _this_...?

"She attacked me, Leo," Kefka complained. "Attacked. Me! There I was. Innocently walking along. Harming no one. There she was. Sword in hand. Walking toward me, in broad daylight, down the middle of the street. All steely-eyed. And then she tried to kill me! All without speaking a word!" He placed a palm against his forehead in exaggerated dismay. "The scandal! What must the citizens think, seeing Imperial leadership fight amongst themselves like that? To say nothing of the _troops_!"

Leo had released his saber, but the muscles in his jaw remained tightly clenched. "And what did you do to provoke her?"

"You _would_ take her side," Kefka muttered in disgust. "Let me say it again, and it would be a favor to both of us if you listened this time. There I was. Innocently walking along. Harming no one. There she was –"

"Kefka..." Leo growled, warningly.

"Honestly," Kefka sighed, then leaned in conspiratorially, his breath disturbing the hair around Leo's face. Leo didn't flinch. "Rumor has it," he murmured, "that she had heard about some of the..._techniques_...I was planning to employ. Just to move this little siege along." Then he stood back, crossing his arms. "Such a minor thing. She always _has_ been so terribly headstrong. To try to kill me over such a trifle..." he shook his head in grave dismay.

"Even so, that is no reason to have her executed!" Leo ground. "You have overstepped your authority in this, Kefka. I'm leaving for South Figaro now. May the Goddesses grant that I arrive in time to halt this travesty you have created. Commander Reeves will take charge in my leave." With a quick, urgent step, he turned his back and headed for the door.

"The Emperor ordered it," Kefka said. His voice was soft, nearly humming with glee.

Leo froze. Slowly, he turned around. "The Emperor...ordered Celes' execution?"

"Ohhhh, yes," Kefka purred.

"It...has to be a mistake," Leo breathed. "Our liege would never command such a thing."

Seeing Leo's stricken face, Kefka laughed gently, but his eyes flickered frenetically back and forth. "Come now, Leo. You're _really_ surprised? Celes has been walking the traitor's path since Maranda." He smiled and took on a faraway look, delighted cruelty twisting at his features.

"Celes could never betray the Emperor. He's been like a father to us..." Leo declared, obstinate.

Kefka returned to the present with a twitch. "Ah yes. The happy little family. You. Me. Celes. The lovely little Terra. Though, maybe not her, so much. One doesn't generally allow one's sister to be plugged into a test tube. Do they. Leo." His face glowed sadistically.

Leo's face darkened, but before he could speak, Kefka leaned in again, suddenly intense. "Think back, Leo," he hissed. "Really _think_, if you're capable of it. The things Celes has said. The doubts she has expressed. The anger in her eyes. Think on these things, Leo, and tell me again that she simply _couldn't_ betray our beloved Emperor."

Leo's eyes flickered with uncertainty, just for an instant. Kefka pounced on the weakness like a scavenger at the smell of blood. "Ahhh, yes," he purred. "You know, Leo. You _know_."

Obviously heartsick, Leo shrugged him off and turned away. "Leave me be, Kefka. I have a siege and the wellbeing of my men to attend to." He again started for the door.

"Oh, dear," Kefka sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't made my point very well. Though this little tete-a-tete has been _ever_ so much fun, I'm afraid I _will_ be taking command of this base. Leo."

Leo turned around slowly, danger again evident in his stance. Kefka, however, stepped forward, handing him a slip of paper. He grinned openly, teeth white and gleaming.

Leo scanned the missive. Silently, he folded it back up, running his fingers sharply along the creases. "The Emperor summons me home," he said, finally. "He asks that I pass command over to you. Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps I can convince him to grant Celes clemency, before it is too late." He didn't look very hopeful, however. From what Sabin had heard, it was a very long flight to the Southern Continent, particularly in the short-range IAF transports.

Kefka smiled, eyes glittering. "You do that, Leo."

Leo pulled open the door, unstopping a flood of gray light. Sabin pressed himself closer to the framework of the undercarriage, though a fortunate side effect of his mud bath was that it allowed him to blend in rather nicely.

"Oh, and Kefka," Leo said, stopping at the threshold.

"Yes, Leo?" Kefka replied, voice sugary sweet.

"I know all about your little 'technique.' You will, under no circumstances, poison the Doman water supply. Nor will you employ it against them in any other way. They are honorable people, and deserve an honorable fight. You will also allow them the opportunity of a dignified surrender. If I hear even a whisper of this in relation to you again, I _will_ see that you are tried in the highest military courts. Is that clear?"

Kefka's grin vanished. "Perfectly," he murmured, eyes flickering with malice.

Nodding once in farewell, Leo stepped out into the rain.

Kefka stood for a moment longer, not moving. Sabin quietly readjusted his grip, feeling acutely the warning signs of muscle fatigue, despite his years upon years of training himself for physical and mental self-control. Unfortunately, the same discipline could not be applied to his stomach. In the echoing silence of the warehouse, it chose that very moment to complain loudly.

Sabin froze in horror. From farther up the truck frame, Shadow shot him a look that promised certain death, assuming Kefka didn't kill them first. After several moments of playing possum, however – more literally than he ever wanted to dwell on again – he risked a peek. Kefka, apparently lost in his own disturbed thoughts, didn't appear to have noticed anything amiss at all.

Then, unexpectedly, the General burst out laughing, giving Sabin a second near-heart attack in as many days. The sound was shrill and unreal and horribly insane.

"Oh Leo, you _idiot_," the man spat. "You naïve imbecile." Tossing the garish cloak over his shoulder, he strode through the door, slamming it behind him.

A moment of frozen silence passed. Then Sabin dropped to the concrete floor. Rolling out from beneath the truck, he leapt to his feet and darted for the door.

But suddenly Shadow was there, standing between him and the exit. Seriously, how did the guy _do_ that? "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, eyes penetrating.

Sabin skidded to a halt. "Shadow, _that _is a man who is on his way to wipe out an entire population. You heard what they said about the poison! I don't believe for a minute that he's not going to go through with it!"

"You are correct," Shadow said. But he grabbed Sabin's arm as he tried to shove past him once more. "And how far do you think you're going to get out there with no disguise? You'll be shot within three seconds, Kefka will still administer the poison, and your brother will be left without a twin."

Sabin glared, weighing the risks of simply pushing the man aside. Then logic took over and he stopped, sighing. "Right again, Shadow. So where'd the pack go?"

Shadow watched him a moment longer, stance wary, but finally released his arm. Reaching beneath the truck, he dragged the faded canvas bag out from wherever it had been stashed. It, too, appeared relatively unscathed by mud. As he rifled through, unearthing boots and helmets, Shadow eyed him. Suddenly he tossed over a ration bar. "So that you don't nearly kill us with your stomach again," he explained.

"He was too busy listening to the voices in his head." Sabin scoffed. He suspiciously eyed the block of military-grade "food," but bit into it vigorously all the same. "I _knew_ you wouldn't be able to let that one go."

Shadow shrugged. Then he nodded Sabin toward a neat brown stack of fabric and retreated into the shadows near the front of the truck.

Sabin stared at the pile, suddenly painfully aware of his mud-encrusted state. Finally he settled on removing his filthy trousers, turning them inside-out, and using them to scrub away as much of the hardened muck as possible. His hair was a hopeless cause, but fortunately would remain well-concealed beneath the clunky helmet.

As he pulled on his last item of clothing – a sturdy brown leather jacket – he happened a glance at his friend. Facing the back of the warehouse, Shadow was in the process of pulling his helmet securely into place. But not before Sabin caught sight of a head full of tawny curls. He looked away quickly, feeling he had inadvertently accessed an intimate aspect of Shadow that the man wouldn't have wanted to share.

"This thing is so uncomfortable," he complained as Shadow returned. He swung his arms back and forth, frowning. "I can barely even move my shoulders without straining the stitches."

"So don't move your arms," the mercenary replied. Without a backward glance, he stepped through the door.

Sabin mimicked him quietly, feeling childish but also a smidge happier for it. Hurriedly stuffing his mud-encrusted pants in the pack, he hoisted it over his shoulder and hastened after his friend.

They stepped out in a gravel lot into one of the stranger convergences of humanity Sabin had ever seen. As he recalled, this base had been set up some five or so years earlier – around the same time that rumors of Doma harboring Returners began. However, more pressing projects had called on the Empire's attention and resources, leaving Doma Station an eccentric, remote little outpost where only a few unlucky individuals were sent to work and live. Over the years, the camp slowly grew, but in a haphazard, trailing manner – a maintenance bay added here, barracks slapped together there; sturdy canvas tents evolved into permanent spaces, footpaths and roads extended by tacking on concrete or tramping down dirt wherever a new building cropped up. The recent influx of troops only magnified the process, turning the base into a slapdash maze of activity. Overall, it was a place that would never lose its sense of transience, and it was the sight that first greeted them as they stepped out into the drizzle.

Sabin stood in his stolen captain's uniform, disoriented, as brown and occasional green-uniformed man crunched past them in the gravel. The tents and trailers here clustered tightly together in no discernible pattern, creating a rather daunting network of alleys. Kefka could have run off down any one of them. Shadow, too, peered around, hesitating. "He probably made for the transports," he reasoned, and started down a wide lane leading back toward the main gate.

_Or... _Sabin mused. He reached out and grabbed a green-uniformed troop by the shoulder, hauling him out of the passing gaggle of traffic. "Hey kid – uhh, Private," he corrected, peering rather unsubtly at the stripe on the soldier's sleeve. The youth, wide-eyed, leaped to attention, back painfully straight. His hand flew to his brow in a salute. "Yes sir! What can I do for you, sir?" he practically shouted.

Sabin took an involuntary step backward. "Yeah...the salute thing," he muttered, and successfully brought his fingers to the corner of his eyebrow. Feeling rather proud of himself, he waited. But the kid didn't move. Wait, which one of them was supposed to drop it first? He couldn't remember. Well, nothing for it but to fake his way through. He pretended to sneeze, whipping his hand down to cover his mouth, silently applauding himself at this stroke of genius. "Sorry about that," he told the kid, ostentatiously wiping at his nose. "Have you seen Kefka go by? I mean, General Kefka. Blond guy, kind of a pointy chin, all red and green and demented? Might be wearing eyeliner if you squint?"

The soldier's eyes widened further, if that were even possible. From the corner of his eye, he caught Shadow in the act of what looked suspiciously like a facepalm. The kid stuttered. "Y-yes, sir, I know who the General is. I passed him on my way here. Um, I think he was heading for the h-hangers."

Sabin grinned. "Thanks pal!" Suddenly feeling Shadow's glare burning a hole in his helmet, he coughed. "I mean, nice job, soldier," he growled, doing his best Quietly Pleased Master Duncan impression. "Carry on!"

The private saluted once more and practically ran away before Sabin even got a chance to fumble out another return salute of his own. Shrugging, he waved to Shadow and started down the footpath the kid had indicated.

The ninja stole quietly up alongside him. For several moments, neither of them spoke. Carefully inching around the deep puddles that stretched across the way, they hurried down the winding lane. After only a minute or two, tents, canopies, and trailers gave way to lines of large rusted storage lockers, chain link fences, and crumbling sidewalks. Alleys widened into muddy, weed-choked fields, scattered with piles of rusty scrap. A metal-tipped cord clanged rhythmically against the lonely flagpole from which it hung, swaying gently in the drizzle. The flow of human traffic had tapered off significantly; they definitely seemed to be moving away from the main compound now.

Shadow abruptly spoke. "All_ red and green and demented?_" he grated.

Sabin shrugged. "Well he is!"

The ninja simply shook his head, black eyes disbelieving beneath the helmet.

They were quiet again. The drizzle had somehow seeped through his uniform, even protected as he was by the company-grade leather jacket. He shifted uncomfortably, his shirt sleeves sticking to his skin as he moved. The clamminess of the air here was unbelievably pervasive. Sabin felt his mood begin to dampen as well, and soon found his thoughts wandering to their eavesdropped conversation in the warehouse.

"I don't understand it, Shadow," he said, frowning.

Shadow glanced at him, which Sabin optimistically translated as a request to elaborate.

"I don't understand how a person like General Leo could exist in an organization like this," he explained. "Like the Empire. He seemed...like a legitimately good man."

"Leo is well-respected," Shadow said. "Even among the Returners."

"I can see why." He lapsed into silence, thoughtful.

Shadow seemed to hesitate, then spoke. "Black and white does exist in this world. But there are also a near infinite number of grays."

Sabin nodded. "Master Duncan always said something similar. It's easy to get in the habit of thinking that every aspect of the Empire is evil, I guess. I just don't understand how he and Kefka can even exist on the same playing field. Talk about contradictions. Seeing those two, it's like...seeing a gentleman trapped in a clown show. Or something. The other general – Chere – I always figured she was just as bad, especially after what happened to Maranda. But it sounded like there's something else going on there. What do you know about her?"

"Does it matter? She'll be dead soon."

"Oof! _Cold, _Shadow. Anyway, speaking of black and white," Sabin said, perking up, "I think I'm seeing a rainbow gone bad up ahead. And it's on the move."

Sure enough, as they rounded the corner of a tumbledown armory, Kefka appeared, striding down the path ahead of them along the far end of a weedy field. Just beyond lay a stretch of tall, spacious hangars, and behind that, the sprawling flightline. As Sabin watched, the General waved a casual hand. A blast of fire roared to life just ahead of him, vaporizing a puddle intruding in his path.

_I really hope we don't die_, Sabin thought, then took off after the madman.


	5. Chapter 2, Part II

Sabin tore after Kefka, his booted feet pounding along the muddy path. Shadow followed gamely, despite the argument some would make (i.e., Edgar) that they were speeding into certain death. Sabin had to wonder sometimes if the ninja tagged along purely for the entertainment factor.

"Kefka!" Sabin shouted as they approached. "Stop!"

Kefka turned, a look of supreme annoyance on his face. "Oh lovely, more of Leo's minions. First and foremost, _Captain. _The title is _General_. Secondly. I don't care about your little siege. Throw yourselves at the walls if you must, and use the piled bodies to climb over. Why must I constantly remind you vermin that dying for the Empire is part of your job? Now run along, little commoners – run along." He breezily waved them off.

"I'm not one of your men," Sabin declared, ripping his helmet off and tossing it out into the field. From his peripheral vision, he was vaguely aware of Shadow sighing and shaking his head. "And as long as I still draw breath, I will _not_ allow you to poison innocent citizens of Doma!"

Kefka stared at him, face contorted in some undefinable emotion.

Then he burst into uncontrollable giggles. "You..._you_ will not _allow _me?" he gasped. "Oh, this is _fun!_" The laughter quieted into fitful chortles, then built back into howling mirth.

Abruptly his face went blank, all amusement wiped clean as if a switch had been flipped. His expression was that of a man who was thoroughly unimpressed with everything. "The poison has already been administered. Several days ago, I'm afraid. Slow-acting – until the end, that is – the more mundane toxins helped along by a bit of magical intervention of my own. Quite clever of me, if I do say so myself. In fact, the killing phase should be kicking in right. About. Now." He glanced casually at his timepiece, then looked back at Sabin. "Now die."

A massive fireball roared directly toward Sabin's chest. Only ten full years' of discipline and training saved his life. Hurling his body to the side, he felt the stubble on his face shrivel from the passing heatwave. But there was no time to dwell on it. Landing awkwardly on the wet grass, his feet slid out from under him at the same moment the shoulder seams of his uniform split. Cursing the inflexibility of all these unnecessary clothes, Sabin turned his fall into a roll, aiming toward a pile of weed-infested debris. He emerged from the maneuver with a large, rusty iron bar in hand, and in a single fluid motion turned and hurled it with the deadly speed and strength known primarily only to those of his background. At the same instant, a pair of shuriken ripped through the air, Sabin's only indication that his friend was still alive and well.

But Kefka, features devoid of emotion except for a certain lackadaisical boredom, casually blew the projectiles from the air with a few well-aimed fireballs. Sabin cursed but immediately launched himself into a forward flip, sailing over a spear of ice that had been flying toward his heart. The somersault brought him dangerously close to the madman. Fortunately, this had been his intention. Fervently wishing for the claw he had lost somewhere in the Lete, weeks before, Sabin brought his arm forward in a powerful jab aimed straight for the mage's throat.

Kefka raised his hand. A terrible, heart-stopping jolt filled Sabin's body, seizing his muscles and setting his nerves on fire, sending his arms falling uselessly to his sides. His body in shock, Sabin was barely aware of being blasted backward, the clap of concussive force setting his eardrums ringing.

For a moment – maybe a microsecond, maybe an eternity – Sabin lay there, uncomprehending. He blinked and stared around dazedly, muscles twitching. Everything seemed sluggish and nonsensical, like a dream. Smoke boiled around him, the long grasses of the field shriveling and burning even as cold rain splattered against his face. A slick of melting ice chilled him through the tears in his shirt – Sabin didn't even remember ripping off the outer jacket. He rolled his head laboriously to the side to note that several discarded shuriken gleamed in the mud near where he lay. A crater marred the road to his left, and behind that, he watched in a haze as Shadow danced about, hurling an arsenal of glittering weaponry at the mage. Where he had hidden it all was rather a puzzling mystery, he thought dreamily, even as a clinical part of him noted the falter in the ninja's step, the slightly desperate edge to his movements as he dodged Kefka's magical projectiles. It was obvious, even to his muddled brain, that Shadow had quickly come to the point where it was all he could do just to stay alive. Kefka was no ordinary opponent; perhaps even impossible for two men like them to kill without magic of their own, accomplished fighters or no. _Should have listened to you, shoulder-Edgar,_ he thought, hazily.

But a driving urgency welled up inside him, screaming at his stupefied senses to _get out there, get out there and help him right now. _Adrenaline surged back into his muscles, clearing his head. Sabin struggled to his knees, the ice-slicked ground burning his bare hands, even as Shadow abruptly stumbled backward, hands covering his face. His friend threw himself to the side as a bolt of lightning blasted a hole into the dirt right next to him, showering them in debris. But something was very wrong. His movements lacked their usual grace – he staggered and fell before rolling to one knee and letting loose another projectile, which flew dismally wide of its mark. Sabin reached for his Blitz well but it evaporated like mist, the tenuous connection shredded by his uncertainty over such powerful magical forces – forces his master had never given instruction on how to confront. Destroyed by what Sabin was shamed to admit was his own fear.

_Fear is nothing. Power is an illusion, perpetuated by people with small minds who know nothing of the true world. What can these things do to hurt you, Sabin? You, who can call on the blessings of the land itself?_

The voice was Master Duncan's; the memory a long-forgotten one hailing from his late teenage years. The moment had been nothing of consequence, really: Sabin and Vargas sat on a large, flat rock atop Mount Koltz, comfortably warmed by the sun. The enormous blue sky spiraled gloriously about them, buoying eagles in its invisible currents as Master Duncan perched on a fallen log, instructing. Sabin had asked some embarrassingly naïve question or another, causing Vargas to snicker. But the Master had responded with a thoughtful gravity, his bright blue eyes boring into Sabin's own, as if he had presented the most intellectual idea in the world.

A calm descended on him along with the memory. _Fear is nothing. The blessings of the land itself. _Half closing his eyes, Sabin reached out. The birds still sang, even if they were far away. Worms still crawled deep in the earth beneath him, untouched by the chaos on the surface. The rain still fell. Sabin sighed, releasing the tension in his chest, and smiled.

A white-hot blast of pure energy streaked from his outstretched hands to hit Kefka high in the shoulder blades. What should have killed the man merely sent him stumbling to his knees. Regardless, it was something. Ignoring the strange green sparkle that suddenly drifted over the General's body, Sabin charged forward, cradling his calm in a gentle hold. As the mage stood and rounded on him, face now frozen in a snarl, Sabin greeted him with a violent Pummel to the chest, followed by a hard uppercut to the chin. Kefka's head snapped backward and he staggered, his bombardment of fire and death quieted for the first time since the attack began. Sabin pressed his advantage, delivering blow after blow.

And finally he plunged into that mental well one more time. The elusive flames still hovered there, flickering translucently, but he ignored them for now. Grabbing hold of the mage's collar, he yanked him close and then heaved him into the air, slamming him facedown into the gravel pathway in a perfectly-executed Suplex.

The mysterious green light showered Kefka's body again, and now Sabin, grip on his concentration finally weakening, drew back warily. Unbelievably, the man stumbled to his feet, spitting blood and screaming curses. Though he now sported a significant array of cuts and bruises, his luxurious cape was a lost cause, and a large mud clod sat stuck to the side of his face, the fact remained that he should be _dead_. Three Blitzes should have been more than enough to do the job. Setting his lips in a tight line, ignoring the aches in his body, Sabin tensed himself to strike.

Suddenly nausea slammed him. The intensity of it was unbelievable – worse than the electric blast of earlier, which at least had stunned him enough to shut down most of his senses. Now he collapsed in pain, stomach twisting horribly as he vomited the contents of his stomach – which already had been mostly empty – into the mud. After evacuating his breakfast, his insides seemed intent on discarding everything else as well – Sabin could swear he felt some of his internal organs heaving themselves to the surface. Vaguely, behind it all, the shriek of "_Die die die die!" _echoed insanely all around him. At the moment, he wanted nothing more. But instead, his insides spasmed violently and all he could do was collapse to the ground, moaning helplessly between fits of heaving muscles, gravel digging into his skin.

Sabin didn't know how long he lay there in his delirious, pain-riddled state. But eventually he became aware of a shadow hovering over him. A hand reached out and touched him hesitantly, running from his shoulder to his face in a questing, uncertain manner, as if its owner suffered from bad eyesight. Then a cool glass rim pressed against his lips, and a sickly sweet liquid seeped down his throat. Sabin lapsed back into blissfully dull semiconsciousness, but only for a moment – soon the remedy began to work its magic, calming the painful fits and soothing constricted muscles. His insides settled back into their proper places as relief flooded through him. The nausea faded and a modicum of energy returned, though at the moment he felt like someone's aging grandfather who had just been fished out of the ocean after taking a tumble down a cliff. Glancing around sluggishly, he noted that Kefka was nowhere to be seen.

"Better?" Shadow asked him, sitting back on his heels. His friend kept his voice guarded, but exhaustion frayed it around the edges.

"Yeah," Sabin confirmed, gingerly sitting upright. His voice was raspy and hoarse, and a horrible taste lurked in his mouth. Wordlessly, the assassin handed over a pinch of dried mint leaves. Eyebrows raised, Sabin nevertheless accepted the offering and thankfully stuffed it in his mouth. "Seriously, Shadow, where do you get this stuff? And then where do you keep it?"

"The all-purpose antidote I bought off the merchant near where you washed to shore. The mint leaves came with it."

"Smart," Sabin commented, noting that his friend had conveniently ignored the second half of the question. "I hope that guy is making a killing. Seriously, the ever-lingering puke flavor is almost worse than the sickness itself." Then something occurred to him. "That poison – the magic he used on me – was the same thing he released on the Domans, wasn't it?" The twisting sensation returned to his stomach, only this time it had nothing to do with his physical illness. "Oh Goddesses, those people...all those people..."

"Except for the speed of its onset, that is likely," Shadow confirmed. "Kefka mentioned a hybrid of ordinary poison and magic. It is likely the effects were just as unpleasant as yours."

Sabin shoved himself to his feet, absently noting the mud wedged beneath his fingernails and the bloodspecks on his arms. He stayed upright through sheer willpower alone, appalled at how shaky and weak his muscles were – as if he were recovering from weeks of illness. He looked around anxiously, but Kefka was nowhere to be seen. Only the legacy of their fight remained – a pitted field, scattered gravel, small fires burning out beneath the rain.

He turned to Shadow, about to speak, but stopped as his distracted focus came to rest on the man's eyes. Several events from the past few minutes finally clicked together. "Shadow...are you blind?"

Shadow's shoulders rose, part affirmation and part shrug. "Another magical contrivance of Kefka's, it would seem. I believe it is only temporary; shapes and outlines have returned to me already."

Sabin nodded, but watched him worriedly all the same. An instant later, however, more pressing concerns volunteered themselves into his life. "Uh, Shadow...I think we have a problem."

Both men turned to look back up the path just as a bullet whizzed past. Sabin tackled Shadow to the ground as several more sailed through the air where they had been standing. Muttering a few choice invectives, he glanced up the road. Back across the field toward the borders of the main compound, still some distance away but closing in fast, a squad of riflemen sprinted toward them, their flanks fanning out to assume better firing positions. Undoubtedly there would be a sniper or two easing into place atop those rusty lockers, as well.

"Best day of my life," he growled. "C'mon Shadow, I think we've worn out our welcome." Hauling the assassin to his feet, Sabin grabbed his wrist and barreled full-tilt toward the hangars. He had no doubt that being led around by the hand was probably the ninja's least favorite part of their entire escapade so far, but at the moment they had few other options. Sabin simply prayed not to feel a bullet in his back; the field appeared to stretch forever, and though the packed gravel pathway aided in their traction, the heel of one of his boots seemed to have melted away at some point during Kefka's latest barbecue. Adrenaline and a primal fear of death coursed through his body at near manic levels; picking up speed, Sabin practically flew toward the chain link opening that marked the borders of the flight compound. Shadow stumbled slightly, but kept up impressively despite his blindness. Sabin supposed he had probably conducted a good chunk of his training from behind a blindfold, anyhow. Ninjitsu was all about darkness and concealment, after all.

Bullets continued to pop and whistle all around them, but fortunately the range was less than ideal for standard Imperial-grade munitions to perform effectively. Tearing through the open gate, they found themselves in a sprawling world of concrete, punctuated by clusters of vast maintenance hangers. Sabin skidded to a halt and glanced frantically around. Ahead and to the left several Sky Armors sat parked in a row, exterior panels removed and various parts lying about, while a handful of maintenance troops milled around them with casual ease. Obviously they hadn't yet noticed the commotion – a fact that was likely to change in about two point five seconds, Sabin hazarded. Swinging his gaze to the right, he found a mostly empty hangar – with the exception of a single half-built Spitfire, the Sky Armor's upgraded model and current pride of the IAF. And two large vehicles parked there in a corner...

Smiling grimly, he bolted directly toward them, guiding Shadow along as best he could. Sure enough, a shout of alarm arose from the general vicinity of the Sky Armors. Sabin simply concentrated on his breathing, on the rhythmic pounding of his and Shadow's footsteps. The maintenance workers didn't worry him yet; they hadn't appeared to be armed. However, he had about a minute at most before that rifle brigade came barreling through the gate behind them. And they most certainly _were _armed.

A shot ricocheted off the concrete a mere foot to Sabin's left as they entered the protective shadows of the hangar. He twisted abruptly to the right, then swung leftward again, hoping to throw off their aim. Shadow had no trouble following; either his vision was clearing up nicely, or his ninjitsu had kicked in full force. Sabin finally brought them up short next to one of the parked trucks. A massive, fully-armored, transport truck. Perfect.

"Inside!" he yelled, yanking open the driver's side door. Shadow surged up the tall steps and gracefully propelled himself across the seat. Sabin barreled in after him, settling himself in front of the wheel.

And now, a small problem presented itself. One he hadn't considered as they ran full-tilt for their lives, bullets ricocheting all around them: He didn't know how to drive.

He stared at the hodgepodge of pedals and knobs. How hard could it be, really? His family had _invented_ the motorized carriage, for the Goddesses' sakes – selling the technology to the Empire, who had tailored it into their own line of transports. Edgar would have had no trouble with it – even in the Imperial form – Sabin was sure. He thought back to his teenage years, to months of suppertime conversations with his brother and father as they animatedly discussed the latest mechanical technologies, Sabin listening with half an ear. It wasn't that these things _bored_ him – far from it. He simply didn't harbor quite the level of obsession for it as the rest of his family. And ten years on a mountain studying nature and delving into one's own soul hadn't exactly contributed to his mechanical know-how. But he dug deeper into his memories, concentrating. Surely there was _something _in there regarding motorized vehicles – some little hint on how to run this thing...

Beside him, Shadow turned to eye him suspiciously, though his gaze still didn't focus properly. "Do you even know how to drive?"

"Of course I do!" Sabin huffed, reaching out to flip a knob. A windshield wiper sprang to life in front of him, waving furiously back and forth. He poked at the knob again but the wiper only flew faster. "Or, I will in a moment here. Just give me a second to figure a couple things out..."

"Didn't your family _invent_ the motorized vehicle?"

"_Yes,_ thank you," he replied irritably. His eyes settled on the control panel next to the steering wheel. Something gleamed in the shadows there... A key! He snapped his fingers and smiled. Yes, of course, everything needed a method of ignition. Turning it, Sabin grinned triumphantly as the engine roared to life.

And then frowned as it sputtered back off, the entire truck lurching roughly forward.

Beside him, Shadow sighed. "I will drive," he declared.

"But you're blind!"

"So direct me," Shadow replied, even as he clambered over Sabin's legs and into the seat. Sabin slid over, not liking this idea at all. But the bullets of their pursuers were already pinging off the armored exterior. The tires were partially shielded as well, but he didn't think they were impenetrable. They had to get out of here, and quickly.

Shadow turned the key and pumped one of the pedals, and the engine flared back to life. This time it survived.

Sabin grinned and cheered his friend on. "Nice one, Shadow! Where did you learn to drive, anyway?"

"People in my line of work must be proficient in many different skills," Shadow grunted, then yanked the gear shift into reverse. With a squeal of tires and a jerk that sent Sabin into the dashboard, they flew backwards, to audible shouts of alarm from outside. Sabin craned his neck to peer through the narrow passengerside window, watching as armed troops dove to either side.

"Alright, Shadow, stop now. Stop!" he hollered as they barreled full reverse into the incomplete Spitfire. It wobbled and tilted ponderously, then gave up the struggle with a groan. Sabin cringed as it exploded on the concrete, gears, nuts, and bolts bouncing all across the landing.

"Well, that one just put us on the Most Wanted list. Okay, now forward. Wheel to the right, thirty degrees. Now left again. Let it go...Beautiful!" Sabin continued to shout instructions as Shadow brought them barreling out the flightline gate and back into the field. Both men were sent flying toward the ceiling as they sped along the gravel footpath, crashing through potholes that were never meant for the passage of any vehicle's tires. Sabin heard horrible scraping sounds from somewhere beneath the truck as they plowed through a particularly deep puddle, spraying mud and water all over the high, narrow windshield. Sabin reached over and triumphantly reactivated the windshield wiper.

"What is our plan?" Shadow asked, gripping the wheel hard enough to strain his leather gloves as another bump sent them bouncing off their seats.

"I'm making it up as we go. Any chance you would know how to get back to the main gate?"

The leather of Shadow's gloves creaked as he gripped the wheel even tighter. A muddy patch sent them skidding for a moment, and Sabin grabbed onto the armrest as Shadow wrested for control. With a sharp jerk that swung them around on two wheels, the truck slammed back into its original trajectory. "If you will describe the landmarks for me, I'll tell you which way we'll need to go. You will have to direct me when to turn," he instructed, his tone remaining as unconcerned as if they were out enjoying a Sunday drive.

"Sounds like a plan!" Sabin chirped, squinting as they flew through a patch of smoky haze that had survived their earlier battle.

"What it sounds like," Shadow stated, "is the last desperate ploy of two men about to meet a violent end."

"Well aren't you just Mr. Optimis– Gah! _Left!_" Sabin hollered. The outer boundaries of the main compound had snuck up on him faster than expected; this was a transport with a visibility intended for twenty-five miles per hour along paved roads, not fifty through the heart of a crowded military base. He leaned forward to peer through the high, slanted windshield. "Okay, in about fifteen seconds we're going to hit that gravel path that goes past our warehouse. There's a lot of foot traffic, by the way...oh, and we've got friends," he added, glancing in the mirror.

Behind them, the other large transport hurtled through the gate and up the ruined footpath; Sabin could just barely make out the crowd of brown-helmed heads squeezed together in the cab. There were more stuffed in the back, too, no doubt; it appeared their pursuers had attempted to pile the entire squadron into the remaining vehicle. The sight of the bulky truck rattling along behind in hot pursuit, bristling with soldiers, was actually rather entertaining, in an abstract, sort of morbid way.

"They'd better be grateful we splashed all the water out of the puddles for them," Sabin muttered, turning back to the windshield. "Oh! Shadow! Pedestrian!" Reaching over his friend, he slammed the heel of his hand against the horn, even as the walker turned and, eyes widening, toppled backward over a nearby berm. "Take it easy here, there are people everywhere...Ouch! Watch out there, friend! Oooh, that had to hurt...Argh, I can't look!" Sabin continued to direct, cringe, and honk as they bounced down the gravel lane, uniformed men shouting and screaming as they threw themselves out of the path of destruction. Shadow held the wheel in a death grip, eyes half-lidded as he concentrated on Sabin's directions and whatever his ninja senses relayed to him.

Their warehouse flew by in a blur of corrugated metal. Now the _really _tricky part began. "All right, Shadow, we're up past the warehouse now, and I don't know where we're going anymore. That looks like the chow hall to the right – hey! Outta the way!" he hollered, pounding on the horn. "Oh man, that guy's sandwich just fell in the mud. Sorry, friend. About a hundred feet ahead this path slopes up an embankment a little, and looks like it crosses a paved road..."

"We'll be turning right," Shadow interjected, tersely.

Sabin nodded. "Right."

"Right _now_?" Shadow asked, disbelievingly, but cranked the wheel to the side anyhow.

"No! Not yet!" A tent burst over the hood, wrapping itself around the grill and flapping against the windshield. Sabin swore heartily and, cranking down the window, reached outside to yank it free.

"You said _right!_" Shadow growled. A group of distinguished-looking colonels, howling in terror, dove into a muddy ditch.

"Sorry! I'll work on my brevity!" he apologized, as wood splinters that had once upon a time actually formed something exploded across the hood. "Alright, we've almost cut back to that road again...now..._right_!"

Shadow wrenched the wheel over and they flew up the embankment. For a split second they soared...then all twelve tons of their truck came down, hard, against the concrete. Sabin actually hit the ceiling this time, as did Shadow – but the ninja, at least, was still wearing his helmet. The horrid squeal of overtaxed brakes split the air as Shadow regained his seat and slammed the pedals to the floor, bringing the truck around in a skidding turn. The sideways momentum tossed Sabin straight into the ninja's lap. Apparently this crossed a line even when the situation involved life or death; eyes widening slightly, Shadow yanked the wheel back in the opposite direction, rolling Sabin (rather violently) back into his own seat. The heavy transport fishtailed down the wet asphalt, but with a controlled dance of brakes, clutch, and gas, Shadow calmly brought them back under control.

Sabin slumped against the seat back and moaned. "They really need to invent something to keep you in your seat...like a harness or a belt...or something." Rubbing his head, he resumed his duty as Shadow's eyes.

But Shadow spoke first. "The gate should be straight ahead."

Sabin leaned forward to look. The guard shack came into view, its placement dividing the lanes into a tightly-controlled entrance and exit. Everything extending right or left of the control point was barricaded with concrete blocks and razor wire, forming an ugly but highly effective border.

"It sure is!" he crowed. "By the way, Shadow, you might want to step on it. It looks like our friends are catching up. I think their truck is faster." Pressing his face against the glass, he squinted down the road. The other transport bounced along behind, slowly growing larger in the mirror. Several of the more enterprising troops were now leaning out the windows, fighting to train their rifles on the tires of the runaway truck ahead.

Sabin twisted around to peer back up front. The gate was now rapidly approaching, guards shouting and drawing their military-issued swords as the two massive trucks barreled down on them. A large supply transport, waiting for its initial inspection, blocked the entrance lane, while several troops were busily winding what looked like the handle of a crank next to the guard shack. Sabin scrutinized the activity, confused at first, then saw the thick, concrete barrier slowly emerging from a recess built across the exit. Which, of course, happened to be directly where they were heading.

"Oh, crap," he muttered. "That's not good. Here, Shadow, give me the wheel for a second. You keep doing whatever it is you're doing with those pedals."

Shadow accommodatingly moved in against the door, giving Sabin access to the wheel. Levering himself into position and gripping it tightly, he took a deep breath. _Focus, Sabin. There is only calm inside you. Only peace._ Running through his meditation rituals, he let his senses expand, his reflexes heighten. The world seemed to slow as his mind sharpened. He let himself focus only on the details of the here and now, as he often had during his daily sparring sessions with Vargas. All sounds blurred together into a muted white noise, with the exception of the thrumming of the motor. He let that wash through him, become a part of him – just as he had with the whisperings of his mountain pines.

Then, still on course for a direct hit against the rising barrier – now almost fully extended – he studied the stalled truck. It had pulled up quite close, but even so, some space remained between the corner of its bumper and the guard shack. Possibly even enough to slide a speeding armored truck through, if one were to time it just right.

"Shadow, slow down, just a tad," Sabin murmured. Shadow complied, a few stray bullets now spattering off the wheel wells. Their pursuers, who had begun to back away – certain of an impending suicide – couldn't resist the temptation and closed in once more. Perfect.

The barrier was coming up fast, now. Sabin watched it approach, still not deviating from their apparent course. Then, seconds before the collision that would have crushed even an armored transport into an unrecognizable lump of scrap, he yanked the wheel hard to the left, taking them into the opposite lane. Rubber shrieked as tires dragged with devastating force across the pavement, leaving melted black streaks in their wake.

Brakes squealed behind them, loud enough to pierce even Sabin's cloud of calm, as their startled pursuers attempted the same maneuver. But he had already cranked the wheel back to the right. Their tail end swung, fishtailed briefly, and straightened. In a slightly surreal moment, his gaze locked with the driver of the waiting supply transport; the man's eyes bulged in growing surprise. Then they sailed through the gap, their right side scraping along the guard shack with a horrible screech, the left taking out the supply truck's front bumper.

Leaning to look in the mirror, Sabin watched their pursuers swerve in desperation. He was rather impressed that they had managed to avoid the trap he'd set for them with the barrier, but they didn't seem to be faring too well otherwise. They had managed to slow enough for an attempt at the gap, but had never regained total control of their vehicle; now it skidded along the slick pavement and rammed directly into the shack. The repeat strain was too much for the corner support, which finally collapsed. Debris showered the road, burying the pursuing vehicle in a blooming cloud of rubble.

And they were free. Their transport purred along, unhindered, as Sabin whooped and threw an arm off the wheel to half hug, half shake his friend, physical contact aversion or no. "That'll delay 'em awhile!" he gloated. "Shadow, you should have _seen_ it! We were heading toward that barrier, and that other transport was in the way, and the truck full of troops was _right_ behind us –"

Shadow lightly shoved him back into the passenger seat, reclaiming the wheel as he blinked and rubbed at his eyes. "I would prefer not to know the details," he interrupted. "I just spent the last sixty seconds making peace with my deities. Now excuse me while I readjust my mindset to the world of the living."

Sabin nudged him and smirked. "Shadow, are you telling me you were actually _afraid_? Oh, the road bends a bit to the right here, by the way."

Shadow eyed him flatly. "I can assure you that there isn't a creature within a mile radius of us that hasn't spent some time, in the past five minutes, fearing for its life, thanks to you."

Sabin considered this and nodded. "Yeah. That guy who somersaulted pantsless out of the outhouse we busted through was definitely the most impressive escape of the day, though."

"We ran over an _outhouse_?"

"Not on purpose! There was a massive _tent_ on the windshield!"

Shadow merely shook his head in resignation. The base dwindled into a speck behind them, and then, thankfully disappeared entirely as they dipped into a valley. The road chased the river south, sometimes running alongside it, other times veering away, but always keeping it in sight. Shadow squinted at the scenery, his eyesight seeming to have returned enough to at least identify when they were coming up on a curve. Sabin frowned, even so; he would certainly prefer the ninja to be operating at full capacity before undertaking the transport of two people and thousands of pounds of vehicle through a gray misty world where visibility was already at a premium.

However, allowing a partially blind man to drive an armored vehicle down an empty highway was probably still the least dangerous activity they had undertaken that day. At least they weren't being shot at by that rifle squad anymore. "So...Doma now?" he asked. "We might not be too late to save them. Kefka could have been lying about the poison; the man's a nutcase, after all."

Shadow shrugged in a manner that seemed to say, _Indeed, why _wouldn't_ we barge into the middle of a siege, just the two of us, directly between two warring armies?_

"Why not?" he replied instead.

Sabin leaned contentedly back in his seat. He watched as Shadow again brought a hand up to his eyes, rubbing at them irritably.

Abruptly an idea struck him. Popping open a dashboard compartment, he rummaged around until he found exactly what he was looking for: a first aid kit.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a plain glass vial filled with a milky liquid. "Try this out, Shadow, while I take the wheel."

Shadow took the bottle and squinted at it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Eyedrops. Travelers usually carry them through the Sabil Mountains near South Figaro. That place is infested with blindness-inducing creatures. If you leave it untreated, it goes away on its own after a few hours – just as yours seems to be doing. What I want to know is if they'll work against magic-induced ailments as well. Unless you've ever found yourself on either Terra or the Generals' bad side, not too many people in the world have ever gotten the chance to test that out."

Shadow nodded and without further hesitation, squeezed a drop into each eye. He blinked a few times, looked around, and nodded in satisfaction, his shoulders relaxing in a show of relief that, out of all the people in the world, probably only Sabin could have recognized. "They work."

"Great!" Sabin crowed. "So magic – even the artificially-induced kind – and the abilities of the animals cross over at some point. I guess I should have known that anyway from the antidote you gave me. Anyway, what it means is that Blitzes fit in there somehow as well..." He mulled over the revelation, thoughtful. It was the kind of metaphysical puzzle Master Duncan had lived for. Turning his eyes to the gray world outside, he watched the leaden waters of the river flow by, its surface dimpled by raindrops.

As they drew nearer to Doma, the scenery began to change, ever so slightly. Mist still hung thick on the river, and low clouds obscured the distant seaside hills. But wild cherry trees began to fan out among the grasses of the valley floor, radiant in the full bloom of spring. The bright pinks and whites were refreshing against the incessant gloom of this land, and Sabin found himself unthinkingly reaching out to them in meditation. He touched them with his senses, just briefly enough to feel the life that burned within, then withdrew.

"I'd never done that many Blitzes in a row before, you know," he admitted to the ninja, thinking back to their recent battle. "I don't know if I'll be able to do that again. Also, my Aura Bolt has never _not_ killed someone. Not that I go around just aimlessly zapping people," he hastened to add. "Anyway, you know what I mean. Is Terra and the Generals' magic so powerful it makes them indestructible, do you think?"

"I imagine if that were the case, General Chere wouldn't have much to worry about tonight," Shadow pointed out. "However, the Empire produces very powerful armor in small quantities. Its properties are generally kept secret. Kefka was probably wearing a sample of this. Several pieces of magic-resistant mail also remain from as far back as the Age of the Magi, scattered across the land. Your friend Locke would doubtless know more about that."

Sabin listened with interest, but did his best to keep his expression casual. Instances of Shadow volunteering information were generally few and far between, but had been increasing the more time they spent together. He wasn't dumb enough to point the observation out this time, but internally he cheered. The mercenary worked so hard to convince all those around him that he was dead to all emotion, beyond caring, ruthless and cold. And in many ways, he was; Sabin could sense the gouges in his soul as keenly as if they were visible to light – damages brought on by a dark and undoubtedly painful past. Making a living off murder had certainly done its part in fraying that connection between man and soul. But deep inside his self-imposed darkness, Sabin knew that Shadow the human being still lived, and with it, the things that made him care.

Casually, he pushed for a little more. "What about the green glow? Kefka was down and obviously injured, but then he did whatever that was, and I swear, he was right back on his feet."

"Cure magic," Shadow replied, and went quiet. Sabin smiled encouragingly. The mercenary eyed him suspiciously, but continued on nevertheless. "One of the most difficult magics to use. Particularly on oneself. It draws on much of the body's energy. Moreso than other kinds."

Sabin couldn't help himself. "How do you know so much about magic, Shadow? I was under the impression that Mage Knights were a pretty tight-lipped group. Even Locke hardly knows anything about it, and he's spent half his life spying on them."

Immediately the air seemed to chill. Beneath the helmet, Shadow's eyes tightened and he didn't reply. _Should've left well enough alone, _Sabin thought with a sigh. Still, the man's knowledge of the subject was intriguing. Magic was a business as dark and elusive as the mists that floated above this river, time clouding it until it was all but forgotten – a source of myths, legends, and supernatural tales. Forgotten, that is, until recently, when the Empire had somehow dug it back up and reintroduced it in the form of its cousin, Magitek. But Shadow seemed inordinately familiar with it – comfortable, even – and not even the artificial, Imperial-produced variety, but the natural kind. Terra's kind. In fact, the way he had reacted only recently – intensely interested in Terra's origins, and how he had looked when Sabin had caught the bush on fire – was all very telling. But telling of _what?_

Sabin pondered. Perhaps he could eventually get the close-mouthed mercenary to reveal where he was from, where he had lived; maybe that would provide some clue. Perhaps it would even aid them in their search for Terra's past...

Suddenly he shook his head, annoyed. _And none of that is any of your blasted business_, he reminded himself. _If the man wants to keep secrets, that's his right_.

Hoping to clear the air, he tried to redirect the conversation. "Yeah, I remember Terra talking about cure magic. She was trying to figure it out. I guess fire comes naturally to her, but the others she has to learn on her own. She may have it down by now, for all I know. But I, for one, will always remember the time my brother was bitten on the ear by a ciripus on our way down Mount Koltz. Terra didn't have her cure down quite as well as she thought and swelled his ear up like a balloon instead." He chuckled at the memory. "She still technically _cured_ it, but there were definitely no green sparkles. My brother looked ridiculous, and I thought Locke would bust a lung laughing."

Shadow glanced at him, but didn't reply. Even so, his shoulders seemed to relax, his eyes losing some of their hardness. Sabin sighed quietly in relief.

Suddenly the ninja turned to him. "Take the wheel," he said, and launched himself out of the seat.

Surprised, Sabin fumbled at the steering column. The truck swayed toward the river for a moment before he nervously guided it back. "I don't know how to drive this thing!" he protested.

"The pedal on the right makes you go. The middle one makes you stop, if you really need to. Don't even think about touching the one on the left. I'll be back."

"But where are you going?"

In reply, Shadow held up the battered canvas pack that still contained their muddy clothes and gear. "Changing," he said, and disappeared through a narrow metal door leading into the back of the truck.

Sabin blinked. First of all, he was impressed that Shadow had maintained enough presence of mind to grab the thing off the muddy battlefield with bullets whizzing about his head and being _blinded, _for that matter. Secondly, he hadn't even noticed the door. Somehow, in all the chaos, it had completely escaped his attention. But then again, blasting one's way through the middle of an enemy camp in a speeding death machine tended to have that effect on people. People whose names weren't Shadow, anyhow.

He gingerly gripped the wheel, keeping a sharp eye on the river that ran much closer to a thoroughfare populated by unreliable machinery than it had any business doing, in his humble opinion. Tentatively, he tried the pedal on the right. The truck leapt forward. A very un-Shadowlike thump and curse followed, floating in from the back. Sabin couldn't help but smirk to himself, even knowing that he would probably pay for it one day with a dagger to the ribs in some unknown back alley. But for now, it would probably be best if he didn't touch anything, as Shadow had suggested.

Gluing his eyes to the road ahead, hugging the shoulder that kept him as far from the river as possible, Sabin drove on. The transport rumbled beneath them, splashing through puddles, and the rain droned ever downward. Shadow returned, his dark ninja gear securely in place once more. His friend seemed much more at ease, though Sabin didn't miss the dark promise in his eyes as he regained control of the transport. Sabin relinquished it happily, plopping back into his own seat.

"What about your disguise?" he asked. "We might have needed that still."

The ninja regarded him from the corner of his eyes. "Have you looked at yourself lately?"

"Huh?" Sabin glanced down. His leather jacket was gone, probably nothing more than a pile of ash by now, based on the mess they had left that field in. The once sharp, pressed shirt beneath looked like something dredged out of a gutter in Vector's poverty-stricken Eastside slums. An entire sleeve was missing, and he had ripped large holes in the knees of his trousers somewhere in the process of all that rolling and diving about. And of course, then there was the blood – his own – seeping through in various patches. _That_ wasn't coming out anytime soon. "Oh. Well, hey, at least the mud kind of blends in. You don't think that from a distance –"

"No."

"Fine." Sighing wistfully, he muttered, "I sort of grew to like that jacket, too." He contemplated following Shadow's lead and changing back into his customary loose, airy pants, but at this point, there would be very little purpose in it. One mud-encrusted item of clothing felt much like the other, regardless of what it had been in its original form.

Sabin returned his attention to the river, and the truck jolted and lurched as it hit a particularly deep pothole. Over the past several miles, the asphalt had begun to crumble and fade until finally it returned to the packed dirt of an old, wide chocobo highway, marked with deep gouges left by troop transports – apparently the Empire hadn't yet gotten around to paving the entire route to Doma, despite the ongoing siege. The heavy sky diffused light and made it very difficult to tell the time of day, though Sabin guessed it must be nearing afternoon by now. A blizzard of cherry blossoms burst around them in a sudden gust of wind, providing a startling but welcome contrast to the thick layers of gray. They were forsaking the protection of the mountains now, leaving themselves exposed to the tempers of the sea.

Which also meant they were nearing Doma. Sabin peered ahead, watchful for scouts or even any sign of city walls in the distance. Trees and low hills blocked most of his visibility, but his senses ranged the land unhindered. They bloomed from the substance of a partial meditation, feeling out the patterns of the wildlife: Stilled rabbits could indicate nearby scouts, and a lack of any life at all in a certain vicinity sometimes meant multiple humans – or in this case, humans and machines. In truth, though, his nature sense simply wasn't discriminating enough to glean much usable information. Only the oldtimers, the monks who had spent entire lifetimes in the mountains – casting off family and friends for their art – had ever achieved such precision. His own mentor had settled for a more moderate interpretation of the religion, teaching that humanity, in addition to nature, required their study – and their skills.

At least, that was what he had professed. Yet Sabin had remained in those mountains, ten years later, when his brother had needed him the most. Master Duncan had not released him to go, gave no indication that he was ready for the completion of his training. And so he had stayed.

Sabin ranged to the limit of his senses, and returned. All was quiet nearby; as far as he could tell, birds still called and crickets still chirped. Even a pack of rhobites – the forest rabbits' more aggressive and carnivorous cousins – nosed around nearby, hunting for mice in a nearby gully. All that would change in a second as they roared past in their transport, but at least it told him they were in the clear for a moment longer.

Absently, he sent his mind questing along the river, more to center himself than anything. Though the valley had stretched flat and open near the Imperial base – the river a winding gray ribbon visible for miles around – parts of it now lay obscured from the road by ancient, mossy willows, their branches trailing in the lazy surface. No fish swam here, and rows of blossoming plum trees stretched in organized tiers past the far bank. Sabin nodded – yes, they were definitely approaching civilization. If they were entering Doma's outer agricultural regions, Imperial checkpoints were sure to follow, and –

Wait.

_No_ fish swam here? That wasn't right. At all. Sabin's eyes flew open.

"Shadow," he breathed.

Shadow looked at him, obviously drawn by the intensity of his voice. His eyes trailed past him through the window and came to rest on the riverbank outside. No emotion sparked in them, but he didn't look away.

Sabin turned to join his stare to Shadow's. Fish _had_ lived in the river, not long ago. Now they floated on the surface, their bellies glinting in the muted light, or clumped in mounds on the shore. A few small animals lay scattered about the mossy banks, limbs frozen and twisted in death, eyes staring. Unmoving specks floated gently along the surface – insects, he realized, lifeless swarms of them, no water predators left to even feed on their bodies. Deeply unsettled, Sabin probed the woods. The emotion interfered in reaching his needed state of meditation, but it didn't keep him from sensing the obvious – death. All throughout the woods, in the river, the orchards – settled like a smothering blanket over the land.

He wrenched his gaze away and turned to Shadow. "Kefka's delayed-action poison. We're too late."

Shadow returned his eyes to the road. "Perhaps not. There may be survivors."

Sabin nodded, but his gut crawled with foreboding. The feeling was confirmed a moment later when the first bodies appeared. A dark-haired fisherman – slumped on the opposite shore, body splayed out awkwardly, one leg trailing in the water, eyes staring. Orchard workers in the distance – in the midst of the seasonal blossom thinning, they now lay in quiet, sodden heaps, their white, airy working garb soaked through by the rain. Fallen blooms settled about them, starkly beautiful against the inherent horror of the scene. It was an image that would stay with him forever, he knew. Death's presence was unmistakable here – and though the bodies beneath the trees were too far away to make out much detail, the fisherman had obviously gone out painfully, if the thrash marks in the mud were anything to judge by. Remembering his own poisoning at Kefka's hand, Sabin's breath momentarily hitched in his throat.

Still, they had to try. Had to make sure. "Stop the truck, Shadow."

"I cannot," Shadow replied.

Sabin turned, feeling an uncharacteristic anger flare to life within him. But then he caught sight of the source of Shadow's refusal. An Imperial checkpoint blocked the road ahead, barricaded but for an opening wide enough to admit one vehicle at a time. This, in turn, was barred by a flimsy, retractable gate. Brown-clad troops huddled together in a hastily-constructed shack, but upon catching sight of the approaching vehicle they piled out into the rain, snapping to attention.

Sabin looked at them closely. They were young, nervous. Something was obviously unsettling them deeply, and he held no doubts in regards to what it was.

"I suppose they want us to stop," he remarked.

Shadow nodded in agreement. "Doubtless."

Neither man commented further as Shadow stomped on the gas. Mud sprayed from the back tires as the truck lurched ahead. The troops, eyes widening as they realized the vehicle bearing down on them had no intention whatsoever of halting, shouted in alarm and fumbled for their swords. But the armored hood had already shattered the gate, sending splintered wood whistling through the air in a sudden shower of kindling. And then the soldiers were behind them, a few ambitious individuals sprinting up the muddy road in pursuit, but rapidly growing smaller.

"How long do you think it'll take them to send someone out after us?" Sabin wondered.

Shadow shrugged. "That point will be moot here momentarily."

Sabin nodded. "Yeah, you're right." They were driving straight into the heart of a siege, after all. His mind lit briefly on a small stand of trees – it rang with a deadly stillness, echoing in his brain. Quickly, he withdrew. "Kefka might be insane, but he's certainly not stupid. He engineered this poison to lurk dormant in the drinking supply for several days – just to make sure everyone had time to get their fill of it – before it kicked in and started killing. Everyone would have drunk the water, Shadow." Sabin shook his head bleakly. "He _will_ pay for this. One day. For this, and for what he's done to my home, my friends. I'll make sure of it."

Shadow said nothing, merely watched the road as they wound through the thickening trees, glimpses of the churning gray ocean now flashing occasionally through the gaps. Signs of habitation began manifesting themselves more frequently, well-traveled footpaths sprouting from the main road to snake off through the hills. Soon the walls of the city themselves were likely to appear, Sabin knew; maybe they'd even catch a glimpse of the legendary keep.

If they made it that far. Three smaller transports pulled out onto the road behind them. They kept their distance at first; then one pulled in casually, its driver obviously pretending he had nothing on his mind other than going on his merry way. Sabin, however, glanced in the mirror and saw how the helmed man leaned forward, studying them through narrowed eyes.

"I think they suspect us," he remarked.

Shadow nodded, unconcerned. A moment later the vehicle pulled up alongside their transport, its driver no longer bothering with subterfuge. Five Imperial heads turned to stare at the black-clad man and his rather tattered companion.

Sabin nudged his friend. "You gonna let them look at you like that, Shadow?"

In reply, the mercenary jerked on the wheel, hard. A bone-jarring crunch rocked the truck, plastering Sabin against the passengerside window. The poor vehicle, having already endured more than its fair share of assaults for one day, left several chunks of armor in the road. The smaller transport, however, spun around completely and slid into a ditch, its tires squealing. Sabin grinned quietly to himself as Shadow wrenched them back on course. They continued to bump along the road at what felt like breakneck speeds, the remaining transports now trailing along at a safer distance.

He checked the mirror again. The passenger troops – apparently more riflemen – were fumbling with their firearms, awkwardly leaning out the windows in an attempt to get a steady line on them despite the jarring of the road. Sabin sighed. "Same old story – they're trying to shoot us again. Step on it, Shadow."

Shadow pushed on the gas, but the engine sputtered. Sabin's eyes widened. "What's wrong with it?"

"I believe we are running out of fuel," the mercenary stated, his voice almost offensively calm.

"That's a bad thing, right?"

"Indeed," Shadow confirmed, as the vehicle sputtered once more and began to slow. Their Imperial tails, encouraged, accelerated to catch up. Shadow again wrenched the wheel, this time sharply to the right, bouncing their truck off the road and onto a wide, diverging footpath – that is, wide if one was a pedestrian, but rather tight if you happened to be barreling along in an enormous armored transport vehicle. Which they were.

Tree branches slapped at the windows and screeched along the sides as Sabin scrambled back out of Shadow's lap. "This will take us straight into the river!" he exclaimed, hardly able to form the words against the jarring of his teeth.

Shadow shook his head. "We won't make it that far." Even as he spoke, the engine sputtered again. Shadow tapped the gas, but the vehicle had nothing left to offer. Slowly, almost gently, the truck rolled to a stop, its engine letting out one last tortured gasp before giving up completely. Silence ensued, punctuated only by the creaks and groans of the frame as the truck's weight settled back into place.

Then the Imperials screamed to a halt behind them, crushing underbrush and fallen branches beneath their tires. Seconds later, doors slammed and voices shouted as nearly a dozen troopers piled out to surround the vehicle, weapons trained on the cab.

Sabin turned to regard his friend. "Well?

Shadow calmly reached out and locked the driver's side door. "There's a Heavy Armor in the back."

Sabin gaped, but at that moment a hail of bullets pummeled the windshield. Its engineers had designed it to withstand significant stress, but even Imperial-grade reinforced plate glass couldn't hold up against a determined firing squad. Sabin dove to the floor as it exploded around them, Shadow rolling to the rubber mat beside him.

"Shadow!" he yelled over the noise of the gunfire. "We had Magitek Armor – the most feared and deadly technology in all the world – in the back of our truck, _all this time_, and you didn't _tell_ me?"

Shadow rolled into a crouch, glass shards sliding harmlessly off his shoulders onto the floor. He appeared none the worse for wear – apparently his black, supple leather was tougher than Sabin had realized. _He_, on the other hand, now sported a dozen oozing cuts along his arms and back, the once primly-creased shirt more closely resembling old swiss cheese than actual clothing. He glowered darkly at his friend as the man poked his head up for a quick look outside, immediately crouching low again as he was greeted with a shower of bullets. More glass tinkled to the floor, and rain began to patter through to wet the dashboard and seats. The ninja, however, utterly unconcerned – not to mention completely unapologetic – pulled out a handful of shuriken and casually lobbed them outside. Several cries of pain followed, and the gunfire momentarily let up.

Sabin again stared as the ninja brushed his hands in a minute display of satisfaction and crawled past him toward the narrow door leading into the back. "That should hold them back, at least for a moment," he noted.

"You weren't even looking!" Sabin accused, impressed despite his irritation.

"I looked," Shadow replied, reaching for the door latch. "Just not at the same time I threw. As for the Heavy, I did tell you about it. Just now." The door swung in, and they were greeted with blackness, lit only by a dim square of light pressing in through the ragged windshield.

Gunfire started up again outside, but this time it was more controlled. In fact, it sounded to Sabin a lot like cover fire, the kind you used to disguise or defend the actions of one of your friends who was up to no good. Which meant they didn't have a lot of time. Crawling in after the assassin, Sabin slammed the thick door closed and bolted it for good measure. It looked sturdy and bulletproof, for which he took a moment to mentally bless the designers. But now they were confronted with the slight problem of visibility. He blinked a few times, urging his eyeballs to hurry up and accustom themselves to the darkness already.

Of course, light chose that very moment to assault him, flooding in on him from the corner. Sabin yelped in pain and clamped his hands over his eyes.

"Sorry," Shadow's voice deadpanned. "The brights were on."

The light dimmed somewhat, and Sabin blinked away tears, squinting against the fading sparkles. And there was their Heavy.

It almost looked humanoid, if one was to stare at it long enough – humanoid with every ounce of humanity extracted, to be replaced by gears, pistons, and metal plates. It gave the general impression of long, clawed arms, legs, and torso. However, here the resemblance ended. Twisted metal covered its mass, a sort of armored beak protruding from just above where the chest would have been on a human. Sabin guessed that here was where the feared TekCannon hid – the one the stories claimed burned towns to the ground in minutes, froze over rebel water supplies, or electrocuted terrified dissenters, all in the name of peace. Other metallic, hollow cylinders bristled from the body, their purposes specializing in multiple brands of death, Sabin had no doubt. Cruel-looking, spiked protrusions jutted from the joints and at the toes of the feet, black and gleaming. Atop the "neck" sat the operator's cockpit, safely enclosed in a transparent but shielded dome. When activated, the machine rose from bent legs to nearly twice its crouching height. Servomechanisms drove the limbs forward in a surprisingly agile walk, instilling them with a sort of deadly mechanical grace that many leaders of nations had learned to fear. Because fear was Gestahl's weapon of choice: it was inexpensive, easy to produce, and self-perpetuating.

Most of this Sabin had learned from wandering travelers, and his occasional forays out into the world. But he had never actually expected to encounter one...much less _steal_ it.

Shadow currently sat perched in the cockpit, the dome standing open, fiddling with the headlights. Sabin watched him suspiciously. "You _do _know how to drive this thing...right?"

"No idea," the man replied.

Sabin fixed him with a long stare. Then he smiled brightly. "All right, then!" he cheerily piped, and clambered aboard. "Ugh, this thing so wasn't made for two people. Move over, Shadow. Now, how to get this guy running...really, how hard can it be? It shouldn't be all that different from the truck, right?"

Shadow looked at him, eyes gleaming with some unnamed emotion. Sabin got the feeling it was akin to dry incredulity. Then the ninja leaned forward and pressed a button at random. The monstrous machine whirred to life, a burst of steam hissing from pipes set in the back. Sabin sprang away in surprise; after a few seconds, the flow tapered off. "Whoa, didn't expect that. Nice one, Shadow. Now what does _this_ one do?"

He flipped a toggle, and something in the front whirred softly, followed by silence. Sabin frowned and tried an adjacent button instead. Now a sort of soft whine filled the air. A flicker of something caught his eye and he looked down toward the beak. The front port had slid open and blue light gathered at the mouth of the cannon, building in intensity. Sabin eyed it warily, wondering if they should be concerned, when suddenly the beam blasted forward, throwing them back against the seats with the force of its report. He found himself blinded for the second time in five minutes as the blue-white blaze illuminated the dark confines of their truck.

Both men blinked painfully as the cannon wound down. Sabin squinted and realized there was _still_ something blinding him. Struggling to focus, he blinked rapidly and leaned forward. And saw that the light source no longer emanated from their machine, but rather the great outdoors. They had shot a hole straight through the side of the truck and out into the woods. Ice shone slick along the walls, and their breath came in clouds. The trees and vegetation beyond shimmered with icicles, several of them dropping to shatter musically on the newly-created freeze below. Otherwise, a resounding, unearthly silence had settled, reminding him, incongruously, of the simple Yule celebrations they'd held in the schoolhouse, deep in the winter snows, laughing and joking around the fire with whatever traveler happened to be unlucky enough to spend the season separated from family and friends.

Then the shouting resumed and his recollections cracked like the ice around them. Soldiers surged through the trees, peering cautiously in on them from behind some of the sturdier trunks.

"Bloody useless ice beam," Sabin muttered, punching the button and sending off another crackling blast just to keep their assailants busy. "Shadow, we should probably figure out how to get this thing moving, or in a moment here they'll be shooting us like fish in a barrel – as literally as you can ever get with that phrase, because seriously, who on earth shoots–Whoa!" He was cut off abruptly as Shadow yanked on a large lever set in the floor and the Heavy lurched to its full height. Standing, it towered a good eight feet above the deck, its raised dome brushing against the ceiling.

Sabin hooted in celebration, clapping his friend on the back, and reached forward to punch another button for good measure. Shadow paused to watch. A flurry of small missiles burst from a line of launchers installed beneath the cannon and flew screaming out into the woods. The soldiers shouted in terror at the sight of them, diving for whatever cover they could find just as the projectiles impacted, sending spears of broken ice ripping through the air with the devastation of a frag bomb. Several of the fragments succeeded, where bullets had failed, in damaging their tires. The truck sloped to the side, causing Sabin to scrabble for purchase on the seat back. Guilt pricked at him over the grisly devastation that last attack must have caused among the troops, Imperial or no, but there was no time to dwell on it. "All right, time to get this thing moving. Shadow, what do these pedals do?"

Shadow toed the one nearest his foot, but nothing happened. Sabin tried his own, to no avail. He growled in frustration. "But the pedals made the _truck_ go! Somebody needs to have a word with these blasted engineers about a little thing called consistency. You know, I bet Edgar's designs are just as bad. When I see him again, I'm going to tell him–"

He was cut off again as the machine stepped forward, joints whirring, throwing him back against the seat. Sabin was beginning to suspect the assassin was interrupting him on purpose, but when he turned to glare at him accusingly, the man merely nodded to a lever beside him. "Runs on a throttle valve," he explained.

Sabin nodded, not exactly sure what that meant, but at the moment it was the least of his worries. "That's great, Shadow, but we'd better figure out how to turn this sucker fast or– _whoa! _Okay, now I _know _you're doing that on purpose." The Heavy swung drunkenly to the right as Shadow tried his pedal again, pressing hard. He released it and their path straightened out, marching them directly toward the back wall.

The relief Sabin had felt over escaping the troops' direct line of fire rapidly diminished as the very solid wall approached. Frantically, he reached out and punched the missile button, then ducked to the floor as the end of the truck exploded in shrapnel and flame. He heard Shadow swear loudly beside him – a first – as the heat enveloped them, metal shards whistling past their ears. Flames licked at them from the ceiling, melting the ice that still encased the side wall. Gritting his teeth, Sabin stood. He reached up and grabbed hold of the open dome, its surface hot to the touch, then pulled on it with all its might. Groaning, it reluctantly drew closed. It wouldn't seal until they found the proper switch, but it was enough to keep them protected for the moment. He quickly released it, tucking his burned hands beneath his legs with several muttered exclamations of pain.

And then they burst through the inferno and out the other side, their armor lurching precariously as it made the long step from truck bed to ground. He guessed that the designers probably hadn't intended it to do that, but never mind. They were now face-to-face with the remaining troops and their vehicles, and in his book, that presented a slightly more ominous problem than the future well-being of an Imperial Heavy Armor. He distractedly tapped the cannon ignition button again, his eyes raking the controls for any sort of aiming mechanism at all. Ice streaked through the air between the two smaller vehicles, frosting over the glass and sending soldiers diving for cover.

"Hey Shadow, turn us a smidgeon to the right, will you?" he asked, finally abandoning his search. Shadow grunted in affirmation and the Heavy tottered into a slight turn. Sabin yelped as a bullet cracked against the dome next to his ear. "Shoot at me, will you?" he grumbled. Punching the button with slightly more vigor than was necessary, he watched serenely as the rightward vehicle froze over, completely encased beneath a massive block of ice. Lips quirked in satisfaction, he reached over to obliterate it with a round missiles. Something whirred and clicked, but the air remained depressingly missile-free.

"Expensive items like missiles generally do not come in infinite supply," Shadow commented, nudging Sabin's feet out of the way as he stretched for the opposite pedal and urged them back leftward.

"Tell that to the people of Maranda," Sabin grumbled, releasing another ice beam instead. It whizzed over the heads of several terrified troops and blasted a crackling hole in the bramble bushes beyond.

"Perhaps if you'd focus less on frosting over the forest and concentrated more on aiming, we wouldn't encounter these problems quite so quickly. Why don't you switch to fire?"

"I don't know where the aiming mechanism _is_! And I think we're stuck with ice, unless you've magically figured out the rest of the firing controls."

"I have not," the assassin admitted calmly. His driving had smoothed out over the past few moments, his hands and feet brushing more confidently over the controls. They now stomped about in a wavering sort of holding pattern as Sabin fumbled at the console.

"All right, all right," he muttered. "I haven't tried this one yet – nope, that's the defroster. How about this...oh hey Shadow, we've got heated seats! Imperial luxury living, right here!" Outside, an experimental volley of bullets bounced off the frame near the cockpit. A few of the braver troops were now peering out from their hiding places to eye the rather manic behavior currently being exhibited by one of the Empire's most dangerous weapons. Sabin smiled at them and waved nervously as Shadow continued to test switches. He jumped in surprise as a blue laser beam unexpectedly streaked from their front and sawed the second vehicle in half.

Monk, ninja, and Imperial soldiers alike paused to stare in consternation. Then Sabin shrugged. "Well, that works. Let's get out of here. Shadow, to Doma!"

Shadow obligingly turned the machine and with a whirring of gears, they plunged straight into the forest. It was yet another thing he liked about his friend – the man never got too hung up on little things like marching off into enemy territory without a plan. A few bedraggled privates, under duress of their senior officers' angry shouts, pursued them halfheartedly. The armor, however, maintained a surprisingly brisk pace, loping along through the underbrush like some alien creature and leaving a ragged trail of shredded vegetation in its wake. Soon their pursuers disappeared entirely.

Sabin leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head, gingerly propping a leg up on the console. His foot brushed against a switch in the process, and the dome suddenly sealed shut with a hiss. Shadow tensed at the noise, some small instrument of death materializing in his hand as reflexively as most people inhaled following a good exhale. Catching sight of Sabin's muddy boots crowding the dashboard, he glared. Sabin smiled apologetically and returned his feet to the floor, shifting uncomfortably in the tight quarters.

Tree branches scraped against glass as they continued to plow through the wood, the rain sliding down the dome in rivulets. Sabin watched as Shadow deftly handled the large assortment of levers and pedals, most of whose purposes remained incomprehensible to him. "Oy Shadow, you're a natural at these high-tech things. Maybe you should partner up with my brother or something."

Curiously, the assassin tensed. "I partner with no one," he replied, stiffly.

"Shadow, I'm hurt!" he exclaimed with a mock frown. "Here we are, after weeks of running around the countryside together, through hell and high water – _lots_ of water – and I still don't merit a shot at partnership with the Great Ninja Shadow?" He abruptly switched to a smile. "Ah, well. Interceptor would probably eat me if he thought I was usurping him, anyhow."

Shadow turned to look at him – and really _look;_ it wasn't just another of his typical muted, stoically disbelieving, sideways glances. The man's stare lingered, and he seemed almost...troubled. Sabin quirked an eyebrow, but before he could flatten the moment with a bad joke or offhand comment, the mercenary turned away. "It appears that we have almost reached our destination," he announced, mask of apathy returned firmly to its place.

Sabin sat up straight, studying what little glimpses of horizon he could catch between the trees. They topped a small hill and, sure enough, the tiered, graceful, pagoda-like structure of the main keep could be seen towering above the treeline. It was still a good distance away but close enough that he could see the way the dark, shingled eaves curled gracefully upward at the corners. A peculiar sort of excitement twinged somewhere deep in his belly, briefly calling to mind his childhood fascination with this proud culture that glorified beauty as much as combat.

But now was hardly the time to be reminiscing. Flashing the ninja a grim little smile, he said, "Here, my friend, is where the fun begins."

_A/N: Okay, so there were going to be about ten more pages in this chapter, but the flow in this one is weird enough as it is and it needed something to break it up a little. So, there'll be two more "short" (relatively) pieces and then Sabin's arc is done. Sabin-haters, feel free to skip, but I always appreciate feedback, good or bad (as long as it's constructive). _

_Thanks as always, everyone, for your wonderful reviews._


	6. Chapter 2, Part III

As it turned out, the desolate silence of thousands of murdered innocents wasn't fun at all.

No challenging call of defiance rang from atop the towering stone walls enclosing the city as Imperial forces battered the main gate. No rallying cry of cityfolk within rose to uphold their samurai defenders; no child's wail or anxious mother's call could be heard. Not even the birds sang, because all of them, like the Domans, had died. Killed, before their time, by a sociopathic maniac who held no qualms about dumping poison into a bustling city's water supply, unleashing indiscriminate death in the name of...well, in the name of Kefka. Nobody had ever determined the method behind his madness.

From the edge of the battlefield, Sabin helplessly watched, settled in a kind of numb horror as a large siege truck backed away from the gate. Tires squealing, it rolled forward, the heavy metal ram fastened to its front echoing of more ancient times. Forward, back...forward, back; the sharp sounds of impact were swallowed by the heavy gray clouds. The gate shook harder with each repetition, massive hinges groaning. Imperial troops milled around, watching, carefully staying clear of the flying mud. A few of them, particularly the black-armored commanders, lounged casually, sharing jokes and war stories as they oversaw from nearby. But others – a young man aimlessly wandering, an old veteran silently polishing his sword – looked ill at ease, even unhappy. A rifle battalion waited toward the back, shuffling in agitation. They dismantled and reassembled their firearms with the mechanical repetition of those looking for something new to occupy their minds.

Nobody had bothered to question the lone Magitek unit as it skulked up to the edge of the group, looking on the whole more sheepish than a mechanized killing machine had any business appearing. A few had turned to eye them as they lurked around the fringes – Magitek armor wasn't exactly an everyday commodity, even within the military – but one effect of the masses, Sabin had noticed, was that they exercised the incredible habit of assuming that when a potential problem arose, somebody else would deal with it. Sabin had no doubt that once they were spotted by the commanders up front, all hell would break loose. But for now, most of the troops seemed to assume that if there was any sort of problem with the unannounced appearance of this fire-blackened, scratched-up Heavy, six feet of displaced ivy trailing disconsolately from one claw-tipped foot, their superiors would have said something by now. It also didn't exactly hurt that the dome had fogged up, conveniently hiding the distinctly un-Imperial fugitives within.

Sabin scrubbed at a small patch of glass, squinting to see out. "See, Shadow?" he said, nudging his friend with a foot. "It was a _good_ thing I accidentally broke the defroster switch. The thing was super flimsy to begin with, so it was bound to happen sooner or later."

Shadow said nothing and Sabin sighed, his attempt at lightening the mood falling stale even to his own ears. He peered out the cleared hole he had made toward the lifeless city walls. "What do you think we should do?"

"Leave," Shadow brusquely replied. "You came, and now there is nothing left here for you. If you want to return to your brother, your next best option is Mobliz, to the south."

Sabin whistled softly. "Mobliz...that's a good distance away. Weeks on foot, isn't it...Seriously, there's_ nobody_ closer who can take us back across the Gulf?"

Shadow's eyebrow raised at the word "us," but he let it pass. "Small fishing villages only. Those people never venture farther than the Serpent Trench; they believe it to be cursed. The Eastern Continent is the least populated landmass in the world; Doma was its main seat of power."

A heavy depression settled in his chest at Shadow's use of _was_, even as he internally marveled at how much the ninja had opened up to him in recent days. When they had first met, the assassin had hardly spared him a glance, much less a word. Sabin had gone days talking to himself – which, even as easily amused as he was, could grow rather wearisome after a while.

"All right," he agreed, feeling bleak. Shadow was right...really he was. They should leave, run far away from this dead city, this tomb of his childhood heroes. They should run while they still could, and focus on delivering Doma's tragic tale to the people who could do something about it...and to the next nation in line for Imperial conquest.

And yet something dragged at him. "You don't think there's _anybody_ left alive in there? Refugees, maybe, hiding in the keep?"

"Domans don't hide," Shadow replied, shortly. "We should go."

_Shadow sure does know a lot about this place_, he thought. Sighing, he nodded. "Okay, let's–"

A sudden commotion off the army's flank interrupted him. Sabin tensed, his hand automatically shooting toward the firing button, certain the commanders had finally spotted them. But the surrounding troops were turning away from them, not toward.

Sabin followed the line of their stares, and his jaw fell open in astonishment. A lone man – no, scratch that, a samurai – charged across the field outside the city wall. Sabin immediately knew him for what he was, and it wasn't even the signature long black hair and moustache, silvery-blue armor, or deadly, upraised katana – a weapon that no Doman samurai would be caught dead without – that gave him away. No, Sabin recognized the warrior's soul in this man by the fierceness glittering in his eyes, the proud posture of shoulders and back, the fearlessness with which he lunged. And the enraged grief that so vividly painted his face. No warrior who had watched his nation fall to such underhanded treachery could react any differently.

The samurai screamed something, face contorted in fury, but the dome muffled outside noises. Impatiently, Sabin pushed the release button, breaking the seal with a hiss. A few of the closest troops turned to glance at them, but now the commanders had shaken themselves out of their stupor and were gesturing vehemently toward the Doman apparition, this lone deliverer of justice. Soldiers swarmed toward him, shouting and bringing their swords to bear. Near the treeline, the riflemen fingered their weapons uneasily. Sabin watched in horror, sure he was about to witness the true passing of Doma.

But the man crashed into his enemy's ranks with the force of a hurricane. He was a whirlwind of havoc, a reaper of destruction. The warrior's katana blurred in a single slice through the air and a half dozen troopers suddenly found their lives at an end. His long hair whipped in a black arc as he spun, and his cape billowed as he slashed. Soon a gap had opened in the crowd around him, those soldiers who still lived pressing back against their companions in wary astonishment.

The man halted his onslaught only long enough to search through the crowd, gaze burning. It froze when he caught sight of the commanders. Purposefully, his eyes never leaving their faces, he strode toward them, offhandedly ending anyone senseless enough to challenge him. The commanders paled. Turning toward the riflemen, they motioned them forward, screaming orders.

"Are they insane?" Sabin murmured. "They're going to get their own troops killed..." he trailed off, realizing that these particular officers obviously weren't cut from the same moral fiber as General Leo. The riflemen, for their part, looked uncertain, but shuffled forward anyway, raising the barrels to take aim.

Sabin swore and leaped to his feet, shoving the dome back forcefully on its hinges. Several of the troops around him exclaimed in alarm, but he paid them no mind. Very bad things were about to happen. Reaching out to the land around him, he let it envelop him. It was difficult; all he could taste at first was widespread death, the emptiness Kefka's poison had brought even to the forest life. It echoed around him, filling him with its devastating wrongness. But he pushed it aside, going deeper. Here was where the trees dwelt – their lifeforce much more subtle, less raucous than the busy animals that typically grabbed for his attention. They were elusive, hard to grasp – but deep within the wooden rings of their years lay the peace that he sought, that changelessness that was such a contrast to the buzzing pace of humanity. Sinking at last into the heart of his meditation, he reached into the Blitz well, straight for that phantom flickering that had escaped him for so long.

Sabin unleashed a Fire Dance.

The air exploded in a hundred fiery specters, images that – he realized with a start – vaguely resembled his own form. They leaped into the heart of the army, onto the siege truck, and into the trees behind him, bounding from place to place like a family of frenzied fireflies trapped in a jar. Where they lit, they left sparks that grew into flame along with confused, shouting men. They weren't powerful enough to kill; at least not directly. This was not Terra's fire – the kind that Edgar told him, in hushed tones, had melted down two Heavy Armors. Because death was not something that Sabin relished.

That wasn't to say, however, that a lot of these men wouldn't spend the next little while in a hospital cot; he rather suspected Doma Station's med group would be logging overtime this week. But the troops didn't know that, and for now the Dance had its desired effect – sowing chaos among the ranks. As a bonus, the siege truck had caught fire rather nicely and was now burning away cheerfully, its driver bailing in possibly the most impressively speedy emergency egress his commanders had ever seen.

Sabin released the Dance with a gasp, the world rushing back in on him. He blinked and turned to Shadow, beaming. "_That's_ more like it. I'm not so sure about the little fire-Sabins, but hey, I can't be responsible for everything that comes out of my head."

Shadow raised an eyebrow at that, but he _did_ look as impressed as Shadow ever got. That is to say, he didn't appear either apathetic or annoyed. But all he said was, "You didn't kill anyone."

Sabin sighed in mock exasperation. "Killing things isn't _always_ the answer, you know. Sure, this didn't take them permanently out of commission, but injured people use up a lot of resources. Burn ointment is going to become a hot commodity over the next few weeks, if you'll pardon the pun."

Now Shadow actually rolled his eyes – nearly a full revolution. Sabin pumped a mental fist in triumph. "Come on," he said. "Let's go help that Doman out." He climbed up onto the lip of the cockpit, and, yelling at the top of his lungs, leaped into the fray.

Another thing Sabin liked about Shadow was that the ninja often proved just as reckless as he was, even if it was more often driven by apathy than any kind of passionate moral conviction. However, that brought him to an additional appreciation: when it really came down to it, Shadow was significantly more practical. Sabin was never quite sure what drove him to plunge directly into the midst of hundreds of trained and well-armed soldiers rather than simply riding through them in a heavily-fortified piece of mechanized armor, other than the fact that it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Fortunately, Shadow merely sighed, grabbed the throttle, and plowed in after him, covering his flank and icing people when he felt the need.

Anarchy reigned as they fought their way through the army, nobody sure which new enemy to direct their focus toward. Sabin glanced through the crowd for the samurai, punching an assailant in the face and elbowing another in the gut as they lunged. Oily black smoke now boiled from the siege transport, mixing with the fog to form a low, thick haze across the battlefield. Everything was a sea of bodies, noise, and flame; he could no longer distinguish one hub of pandemonium (of which the mysterious samurai presumably formed) from the next.

Then Shadow shouted at him and pointed toward the gates. Following the motion, he caught a flash of blue and silver. The Doman had carved his way over to the commanders. He now fought two at once, clashing swords with one as the other attempted to circle around him from behind. Their faces were angry and belligerent, practiced masks hiding their fear. The man's own was merely focused, his angular jaw clenched and eyes burning with intense, single-minded purpose.

Sabin bent backward to avoid a sudden sword stroke aimed at his neck. Following the path of his momentum, he turned the motion into a handspring, catching his assailant beneath the chin with a flying boot. When his feet hit earth again, he let his knees buckle, carrying him to the ground as a sword stroke whistled overhead, then lashed a leg out in a powerful sweeping kick that took down several troopers. The fallen men rolled aside desperately as Shadow stomped along behind in the Heavy. But Sabin had already forged on, working his way through the crowd with the inexorability of a wildfire.

The samurai's armor glinted in his vision again, closer this time. Frost bit at his face and chilled his nose as Shadow assaulted the field with another bout of ice, aiming low so that anyone not caught in its direct path suddenly found traction hilariously difficult. Dozens of pairs of booted feet flew into the air as helmeted heads cracked against the impromptu ice rink, swords and rifles sailing end over end through the air. Sabin would have found it entertaining had the situation been less dire.

Caught up in a prolonged flurry of fighting borne by a small group of unexpectedly coordinated and well-disciplined soldiers, Sabin barely noticed his increasing proximity to the battling samurai until they were nearly back to back. He drove a hard kick into the nearest man's wrist, sending his weapon flipping out of reach, then turned to watch the Doman out of the corner of his eye, batting away another's overhand strike with a quick swipe of his arm. "Hi there!" he greeted the man.

The samurai glanced his way as his katana danced, impaling one man and streaking around to disarm another in a single graceful motion. The two commanders lay dead on the ground. Sabin noticed that the man had maneuvered himself into a position both to fight and keep a steady eye on him and Shadow, the two free-floating wild cards. Sweat dripped from his hair and his breath now came in gasps. "Art thou friend or foe?" he asked, panting.

_Straightforward, this one._ "Friend," he promised, stepping lightly away from the arc of a swinging blade. The Doman scrutinized him, a rather dubious look in his eye, and Sabin realized that between the mud, his shredded uniform, and several weeks' growth of beard, he probably looked like a hobo who had taken a horribly wrong turn. Not to mention the fact that they were casually zipping around in a piece of prize technology belonging to this man's mortal enemies. Sabin hastened to explain, absently jabbing a creeping attacker in the throat and bringing the heel of his hand into his nose. "Don't worry about the armor; we're just...borrowing it for a bit." _Goddesses, I sound like Locke. _"All right, scratch that – we're downright stealing it. But Shadow here is a friend too. We're here to help."

Kicking a charging soldier's feet out from beneath him, the man's eyes lit distastefully on the blackened, wicked-looking machine, then came to rest on the ninja. A glimmer of surprise crossed his face as he took in his attire. "Shinobi..." he said, cautiously.

Eyebrow raised, Sabin glanced at his friend, tripping a soldier and shoving him onto the ice slick. The ninja's face remained expressionless, even hard. "Um, okay," he said, looking back and forth between the two. "So anyway, how about we head on out of here, ASAP? Though the odds have gotten slightly better for us over the past ten minutes, it's still about three hundred to one out here."

The samurai paused for a moment to take on several more troops. Their swords clashed as they leaped to the attack, but his positively flew, a silver streak weaving among them in a flurry of motion. All three were out of commission in under ten seconds. The man turned back to their Heavy, eyeing it doubtfully, but didn't move.

Sabin clambered into the cockpit, flopping gracelessly onto the seat. "It doesn't bite, I promise," he encouraged, turning back to face the samurai. "At least, I don't think it does. Here, let me give you a hand up."

The Doman started toward him, then hesitated. Uncertainly flickered on his face as he turned back toward the walls of his former home. It stared back at him, echoing and lifeless.

Sabin glanced around, increasingly nervous. Many of the troops appeared to be organizing themselves, despite the chaos. He had assumed that with the death of their commanders the army would fall apart. But he had to remind himself that ultimately, these were Leo's men. They fought not for Gestahl, not for any Imperial cause, but for a man that they trusted and respected. The reminder made him reach his hand out for the Doman, fingers twitching in barely-suppressed urgency. "Hey friend, I really hate to be rude, but we've got to go _now._"

The warrior cast a final anguished glance toward his dead city, then grabbed Sabin's hand – sweat-streaked and bloody – and let him haul him up into the cockpit.

A clamor of armor, knees, and elbows immediately followed as the man toppled into the seat. Shadow grunted as he was crowded forcefully into the far corner, Sabin nearly crushing him as they attempted to pack themselves into a compartment that had really only been designed for one. Spitting out part of the samurai's cape, Sabin made a heroic attempt at a smile. "Onward, Shadow!"

"I can't. You're sitting on the throttle."

"Oh." Sabin shifted, grimacing at the rather tender spot in which the control stick had managed to wedge itself. "Here it is. Let me just – _oof –_"move my leg there..._ow! _Hey samurai-man, I'm not sure your sword is going to fit in here," he said, rubbing a spot on his head where it had collided with the hilt.

"I will not leave it behind," the man stiffly replied.

"All right, all right...here..." Eventually they managed to arrange themselves in a manner that, if not necessarily comfortable, at least fit three men and a sword well enough to proceed. A highly disgruntled Shadow took that opportunity the moment it was available, shoving Sabin's knee out of the way to yank back on the throttle. Sabin felt himself pressed back into the seat as they lurched forward, but was wedged in so tightly there was no need for him to worry about crashing into the windshield. Which was at least one improvement over the truck, he reminded himself brightly.

"So..." he began, turning to regard their new addition as best he could. Soldiers swarmed around them and a few bullets now pinged off the dome. Noticing Shadow eyeing the firing switch in irritation, he reached out with a foot and hit it for him. Ice streaked across the field, sending their attackers diving back into cover. "I never quite caught your name."

The samurai had been staring at the jumble of controls in front of him with a strange sort of repulsed fascination, starting in surprise when the ice cannon whined into action. But at Sabin's words he blinked and gathered himself. "I am Cyan, retainer of Doma. I once served as my liege's most trusted knight, but in that I have failed. Might I ask thine own name, sir?"

"Sabin of Figaro, at your service. And like I said, this here is Shadow. His last name is Bringer of Mayhem and Icy Demise," he said. The ninja studiously ignored him, even as he blazed a new trail of ice through the field.

"Well met, gentlemen. I am indebted to thee." Cyan shifted uncomfortably, a ridge on his breastplate digging into Sabin's ribs. "I assume this is a sample of the Imperial Magitek technology we had heard whispers of." He made the name sound like a dirty word, glaring at the controls distrustfully.

Sabin contemplated him. "You don't like machinery very much, do you? And I'm not even just talking about the Imperial stuff."

"It is no replacement for good, honest labor," the man replied, voice stubborn. "I can hardly bear to find myself parading about in such an abomination even now."

"But machines are so _handy_! Even Magitek! Look, besides blasting your mortal enemies full of frostbite, this thing can turn your everyday forest into a winter wonderland. Ever had the desire to go ice fishing in the summer? Well, neither have I, but now if you _wanted _to, you could. It's got a laser, too, and it used to shoot tiny missiles. Unfortunately we used them all up–"

"_You _used them all up," Shadow interjected in a mutter.

" –but the _point _is, Magitek death systems aside, machinery allows us to direct our energies away from menial labor and refocus them toward thinking and inventing, on improving ourselves and working to help others."

Cyan raised a soot-streaked eyebrow. "Thou art quite the idealist."

Sabin shrugged. "Eh, I blame my brother."

The samurai shifted, opening his mouth to reply, but in the process his knee brushed against the control panel. A sort of _thunking_ sound followed, and suddenly the cannon's cold blue beam shifted to a warm, lively gold. Electricity sparkled across the field, reflecting in the ice and setting thick clouds of smoke aglow. A pack of charging soldiers, caught in the smaller tendrils of energy that arced from the body of the beam, convulsed and fell back against their companions.

Sabin and Shadow stared. As one, they turned to look at the samurai.

"You figured out how to change modes on the cannon!" Sabin exclaimed. "Cyan, you're a genius!"

The samurai's mouth opened and closed, his eyes wide. Shadow returned his focus to the action outside as he glibly handled the controls, concentrating on making optimal use of their newest weapon to cover their retreat. A momentary lull descended inside the cockpit, an odd contrast to the mayhem outside. Shouts and ricocheting bullets continued to assault them, but gradually tapered off the further they traveled from the city. A smoky haze lay thick on the battlefield behind them, the significance of Sabin's newest Blitz evidenced by the patches of glowing embers that still smoldered here and there among the tall grasses despite the ice that coated nearly everything else.

With the debut of the stolen armor's bolt beam, it seemed that even their most determined pursuers had become disheartened. A few still tailed them on foot, but Shadow kept the Heavy at a steady pace and slowly, methodically, they began to outdistance the greatest danger. Finally the battlefield disappeared altogether as Shadow drove them over the lip of a hill.

"Well!" Sabin said, brushing his hands in satisfaction. "Another job well done."

The others said nothing, Shadow watching the treeline for new threats as Cyan gazed stoically ahead, scrunching his legs as far back from the control panel as possible. They proceeded in silence for a time. The rain had finally stopped, but the ash gray of the sky was quickly darkening into slate as the sun – and Sabin really had to wonder if it even dwelt in this forsaken land – continued its roll from summit to horizon.

Unexpectedly, Cyan spoke. "Sir Sabin," he began. "I do not mean to pry, but...thou sayest thou art a citizen of Figaro. Art thou of their royal line?"

Sabin quietly sorted through the _thous, _then burst into a laugh. "Royal? Well, I just might be at that. But how on earth you came to that conclusion when I _know_ I look like some homeless refugee –" he gestured to the tattered remains of his stolen uniform, "–is a trick I'd be really curious to learn."

The samurai drummed his dirty, bloodstained fingers together contemplatively. "Many years ago, before thy kingdom allied with the Empire–" his voice took on a slightly bitter edge, but he continued, "I attended a banquet at Figaro Castle that King Edwin had thrown in my liege's honor. There I met the young Prince Edgar for the first time. I remember he was a lover of fun, mischief and all manner of motorized monstrosities, but even at such a tender age he held a deep seriousness for the affairs of his future kingdom. However, I also seem to recall a certain urchin trailing in his wake. A twin brother, one who exhibited the same look and raucous demeanor as thee."

Sabin considered, thoughtful, trying to recall memories of a life now as distant to him as a dream. King Doma and his retinue had indeed paid many visits to Figaro back in those days, before tensions with the Empire had really come to a head. As far as he understood through recent conversations with Edgar, these visits had become more and more infrequent after their father's death, and then stopped altogether shortly after Edgar made Figaro's alliance with the Empire public. The Domans had retreated to their distant eastern kingdom, closing themselves off behind their thick city walls and refusing to take part in a world that was shrinking beneath the ever-lengthening reach of Gestahl's Empire.

He turned back to the man with a smile. "That sounds like me, all right. I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't badger you knights to distraction with all my questions. All I wanted back then was to be a samurai, myself."

Cyan nodded once. "Then, thou art indeed brother to Figaro's fallen king?"

Sabin's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "Hey, I don't know about fallen! Eddie is alive and well and still actively ruling, thank you very much! But even so, I'm impressed you made the connection. Most friends of Figaro tried their hardest to blot my name from their noble memories when I left. I guess a runaway prince is something of an embarrassment to the nobility. That, and I ruined all their plots to get me married to their power-grubbing daughters." He grinned unrepentantly.

Cyan turned to regard him fully, unsmiling. "And how is it, might I ask, that a prince could abandon his duties in such a way? Among my own people, forsaking one's responsibilities for fear is contemptible."

The air immediately stiffened with tension. Even Shadow glanced their way, before quickly busying himself with electrifying a small group of checkpoint guards that had emerged from a nearby stand of trees. Sabin's smile remained fixed to his face, but it now came laced with a certain hardness. He stared directly into the samurai's iron-black eyes, unflinching. "I like to think the best of people," he began, voice soft and level. "Really, I do. But if you're calling me a coward, I'm afraid this will be the end of our friendship."

The warrior stared at him a moment longer, unmoving, almost challenging. But after a moment, the hardness melted away, replaced by chagrin and a certain lurking sorrow. "I...apologize. Thou art obviously the most valiant among men. Both...both of thee." Beside him, Shadow stiffened, ever so slightly, though whether in surprise, anger, or hey, maybe even amusement, Sabin sure didn't know. "It is just that this–" Cyan's voice broke tellingly as he motioned toward the keep's towers dwindling behind them, all that was visible now of his once magnificent kingdom beneath the smoke and haze. He quickly cleared his throat and looked away. "I fear I am not at my best at this time."

Sabin's face softened, and he reached out to gently grip the samurai's shoulder. Feeling slightly sick, he wondered what the man had lost today besides his home. "How did you escape?" he questioned gently.

Cyan swallowed visibly and his jaw clenched. "My liege had ordered myself and a small contingent of knights outside the city several days earlier to undertake reconnaissance against the enemy's forces. The others perished in battle. I am the only one who remains. Would that he had allowed me to stay and fight..."

"If he had, you'd be dead too, without even the chance to lift your sword," Sabin pointed out reasonably. "And trust me, that poison is no joke." His stomach churned uncomfortably in remembrance.

Cyan nodded, but had gone slightly pale as he turned his gaze to the mournful gray countryside. From the corner of his eye Sabin noticed Shadow glancing at him askance before returning his attention to the controls.

_I guess I could have left that little detail out,_ he thought, abashed. Time to change the subject. His gaze darted outside, searching for inspiration. The western sea was now fully visible; cherry orchards and cultivated land had slowly been giving way to rolling, grassy hills, signifying their increasing proximity to Doma's southern borders. The armor left trailing, indented footprints pointing directly southeast, but Sabin wasn't too worried. Towering black mountains rose directly before them, no more than a day away. If anybody was overzealous enough to come after them at this point, they would surely lose them in that untamed wilderness. Sabin loved mountains – he had spent over a third of his life in them – but he didn't relish the prospect of toiling through these wild, unknown peaks for days on end when all he really wanted to do was get back to his brother. Maybe they would find someone to take them back to the Western Continent before Mobliz. After all, Shadow couldn't be right about _everything_, could he?

As they topped another rise, the telltale brown canvas of a small Imperial encampment rolled into view, nestled in a shallow trough formed by two hills. All three of them tensed, but the camp appeared to be empty. Likely it had belonged to that group of checkpoint guards Shadow had electrified.

"Hey, do you think we could sneak this thing all the way back to Narshe?" Sabin wondered as the Heavy dipped into the grassy depression.

"No," Shadow replied, not looking up.

"Seriously, Shadow, just consider it for a moment. The Returners would kill for this little beauty – they've been trying to get their hands on Magitek equipment for years. We could put it in a really big crate, pay the ferry captain a little extra to stuff it in his cargo hold, and then drive it to Narshe from wherever we land."

Shadow gave him a look that Sabin, now experienced in Shadow-speak, translated as, "There are so many things wrong with that plan I don't even know where to begin." Instead he settled on, "With what money?"

"We could sell Cyan's armor – holy crap! Kidding, kidding!" Sabin leaned as far into Shadow as he could without getting knifed under the heat of the Doman's glare. "Maybe not that. But I bet if we figured it out, we could convince the Returners to pay you extra, on top of what my brother's already giving you."

Cyan whipped around, glare now positively blistering. "So! Thou art naught but a mercenary!" he accused, the full force of his stare turned on Shadow. "I knew thee for what thou wast from the beginning, _shinobi_, but I had hoped I was mistaken. It is clear to me now that thy people remain nothing but common sellswords – contemptible opportunists lacking in honor."

Sabin gaped, but Shadow's soft voice cut in. "I have no people," he replied, voice level but dangerous, "and I practice no religion. Not only do I sell my sword, but I kill. For money."

Sabin laughed uneasily, trying to dispel the tension, but the Doman's face darkened. "Thou wouldst willingly pursue a profession that would bring such dishonor to thy family?"

"Perhaps I killed my family. I would kill you for the right sum, samurai." Shadow replied, voice still soft but mocking.

Cyan's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but Sabin had had enough. "_Hey!_" he yelled. "Stop!" Without waiting for Shadow to comply, he reached across Cyan and hit the dome release button. It hissed as the seal broke. Wriggling his way from his wedged position between samurai and ninja, he leaped from the moving Heavy. Both men stared, argument stalled, as he dashed off toward the abandoned encampment.

A moment later he returned, contentedly stuffing the remains of a half-eaten sandwich into his mouth. In his other hand he carried a rumpled paper bag. "What?" he mumbled around a dense mouthful, noting the two men's incredulous stares. He swallowed hard and took another bite. "Look, I've been starving to death all day, and I threw up what little I _did _eat, in addition to several things I'm pretty sure should have stayed _inside _my body. If I have to listen to you two argue about Goddesses know what, it might as well be on a full stomach."

"...Didst thou just..._eat_ a stranger's lunch?" Cyan asked, regarding him with the disbelieving and slightly cautious look of someone who has only just realized their newest friend might actually be a madman.

"I didst," Sabin confirmed, chewing contentedly. He crawled over Shadow and wriggled his way back into the increasingly cramped seat. "Look, there's some in here for you, too." Obligingly he held out the tattered, grease-stained sack. The samurai stared at it and shook his head minutely, attempting to inch away as inconspicuously as possible. Undeterred, Sabin shoved it toward Shadow, eyebrow quirked questioningly.

The ninja stared at him blankly, and then, much to Sabin's surprise, reached in and pulled out a heel of bread. Instead of eating it, however, he stood, pulling a thin silver whistle from a cord around his neck, and blew. Rather than the shrill blast Sabin expected, however, it made no sound other than a single thin, high note, barely even audible over the ocean winds that invaded the open cockpit and buffeted the prairie around them.

"Well," he said as Shadow returned to his seat, still gripping the hunk of bread in one black-clad palm. "That was certainly one of your more random moments, Shadow."

The assassin didn't reply, but simply waited, the armor humming softly as it idled. Several moments later, a wet and muddy Interceptor burst from the bushes, tongue lolling from an enormous, doglike grin, tail wagging so hard Sabin thought he would shake the burrs straight out of his fur. The ninja tossed the dog the bread, then leaped gracefully from the cockpit and sauntered over to scratch the head of perhaps the one being who meant anything to him in life.

"Oh yeah, Interceptor. Kinda forgot about him. Hey there, mutt," Sabin called, waving at the beast from the cockpit. The monster-sized dog, muzzle stuck with a few slobbery crumbs, saw him and bounded forward to plant his front paws against the armor. His head reached nearly three quarters of the way up the hulking machine. Sabin leaned over Cyan to good-naturedly scratch the canine's ears.

"Sir Sabin," the Doman murmured in his ear as Shadow scaled the armor and squeezed himself back inside, causing Sabin to forlornly identify with the sad-looking piece of lunchmeat inside the rather flattened sandwich he had recently devoured. "Is that a dog or a wild beast?"

"All of the above, I'm fairly certain," Sabin replied, shifting uncomfortably. "Now that we're all one big happy family again, what say we close this dome and head out? It's chilly out here, and getting dark to boot."

Shadow nodded and with a quiet command, sent Interceptor back to wherever he had been lurking. Sabin nudged the Doman with his knee. "Hey Cyan, help a friend out and close that dome up for us, will you? Now that Shadow's back in here with us, I think my arms are going numb."

If Sabin hadn't known firsthand that the Doman was one of the most courageous men alive, he would have described the tiny glimmer that crept into the samurai's eye as something akin to panic. "Thou wishest _me_ to operate this apparatus?"

"You're not _operating_ it, Cyan, you're just hitting that big yellow button right there. Easy as prickly pear pie, I promise."

His jaw tight, the Doman reached forward and uncertainly jabbed at the control panel.

With an emphatic moan of finality, the armor powered down. A light _pop_ sounded from somewhere within, and a thin stream of smoke drifted gently from the control panel.

Sabin gaped and Shadow stared. Finally Sabin turned awestruck eyes on the flustered samurai.

"You _broke_ the Heavy Armor. A thousand heavily-armed, fully trained Imperial soldiers could barely put a dent in it, and _you_ _broke _it."

Cyan pressed himself back up against the seat, glaring at the offending controls, and gripped the hilt of his katana as if for reassurance. "Thine instructions were to push on that yellow activator. This is what I did! I...I believe so, anyhow."

Sabin marveled a moment longer, then shrugged. "Oh, well. I guess the Returners will just have to nab their technology elsewhere. And now we don't have to figure out how to smuggle it all the way to Narshe."

"Most of us weren't worried about that anyhow," Shadow pointed out.

"_And_," he continued, shooting the assassin a wounded look, "it was getting pretty tight in there. I think we might have killed each other before our journey was through." Smiling, he patted the warrior on the shoulder. "I think you may have actually done us a favor, Cyan."

The Doman glanced at him gratefully, if not a little strangely. "Thou art...a very interesting man, sir."

Sabin snorted. "My brother called me that when we were kids, but he meant it as an insult. Well! If the day isn't young, at least the evening is. Shall we go?"

The three men disembarked from their smoking, scarred machine, and set off toward the looming peaks of the south.


	7. Chapter 2, Part IV

If, back on Mount Koltz, someone were to tell Sabin that before spring was through he would find himself the last living member of his religion; roaming the eastern Veldt with a taciturn mercenary ninja assassin, a homeless samurai, and a partially rabid teenager who could feasibly have been raised by lobos; stranded in a country where it seemed apparent nobody had yet invented nautical navigation – oh, but only after fighting an entire Imperial army, escaping a sentient train bent on carting him straight to the Other Side, and voluntarily leaping down one of the tallest waterfalls in the world – he would have roared in laughter, slapped the guy on the back, and brought him another beer.

Yet here he was, playing out that very scenario.

Sabin, happily shirtless once more, relaxed against the trunk of a large, twisted, umbrella-shaped tree as he watched Gau stalk a pair of rhobites through the tall grasses. Shadow sat in the shade nearby – if not exactly lounging, he was at least comfortable. The brooding mercenary had come a long way from the person Sabin had known back in Doma, almost a full month ago. He had come farther still from the cold man Sabin had first met on the banks of the Lete. Nobody else would have recognized the differences – they were subtle, barely even visible to Sabin himself. But a certain familiarity existed between them now, one borne of shared travels and trials. He got the sneaking suspicion that everything he had subjected the man to over the past month was worth well over the ten thousand gil he had originally promised, and often wondered why Shadow continued to stick around. Maybe he planned on presenting Sabin with a lengthy tab the instant they set foot in Narshe. Well, if that was the case, he would just have to hope Edgar had enough cash on hand to cover it. Because as it was, the three of them – and now four, including Gau – had been living off the grid this past month with hardly a gil to their names.

"What did you say Cyan was doing in Mobliz again?" he asked, watching with interest as Gau stepped out into the open, provoking the rhobites into an attack.

"Sending letters to that injured soldier's girlfriend again, I imagine," Shadow grunted, polishing the wicked-looking blade he had produced from somewhere on his person.

"Wait. What?_ Cyan_ is messing around with somebody's _girlfriend?_"

Shadow shot him a longsuffering look. "As I had explained the previous three times you asked, he is having the letters delivered at the soldier's request."

"Yeah, I guess you did say something to that effect. You didn't mention it was the guy's _girlfriend_, though. It's just...kinda weird, don't you think? I dunno, Shadow. After the Phantom Train he pretended everything was all right again, but I don't think it is. It was nice that he got to say goodbye and all, but I'm not sure that grief for a wife and child can be cured that easily."

Shadow's blackened polishing rag halted mid-motion. He didn't look up, but a strange, faraway look entered his eyes, one that Sabin had never seen in the man before. The Phantom Train had been a harrowing experience for all of them – Cyan most of all, who had lost so much so very recently. But Sabin suspected Shadow hadn't remained untouched. As for himself, he'd done his best to stifle death's sting over the years with lightheartedness and a general irreverent disregard for its significance. Such was the case as they had worked their way up the train, edging themselves as far away as they could from the lost, haunted specters floating among the compartments – so very different from the newly passed-on but otherwise solid-seeming souls that had boarded later. Forcing himself to ignore the absolute bizarreness of it all, the implications it inflicted on his general understanding of life and death, he had sauntered along between cars, doing what he needed to do and meeting each new surprise with a smile and – if that failed – his fists. (This generally fell short as well, seeing as the aforementioned surprises were ghosts and all...in which case, he resorted to his last option: mad improvisation.) Even so, he caught himself glancing hopefully into corners and side compartments, something deep inside him watchful for that chance glimpse of his father and the mother he had been too young to remember. They wouldn't be there, of course; both had presumably disembarked years ago. But he couldn't help looking. And hoping.

He wondered who Shadow had watched for when his eyes searched those corners.

Shadow's rag resumed its smooth, circular motions, and Sabin returned his attention to the Veldt just in time to catch sight of one of the rhobites leaping at Gau's hunched form in a flash of fangs and floppy ears. The kid was good; he rolled out of the way easily even as a dirty, hide-bound foot lashed out to knock the creature on the side of the head. The rhobite slumped to the ground, unconscious. Sabin glanced to its mate, expecting it to take the opportunity to make its escape. The creatures did, after all, share a distant ancestor with the common timid rabbit, leaving him to wonder what, exactly, evolution had been thinking with _that_ one. However, the mate stood its ground. Growling, it flattened its ears and hunched deep into the grass. The muscles under its skin rippled, and suddenly its fallen friend glowed with a faint golden light.

Sabin perked up, watching with interest. It wasn't often that a common rhobite displayed such skill, not to mention presence of mind – the creatures generally lacked the finesse and mental fortitude to do much besides claw and hiss at things. He touched lightly on the rhobite with his mind as it brought its companion back to consciousness, feeling the transfer of power as it flowed from the vast, primal land into the fallen animal. Woozily, the downed creature staggered to its feet.

Gau watched intently, crouched and frozen. A large butterfly, drifting along on a warm air current, landed briefly in his disheveled blond hair before fluttering off again. Both rhobites, one still blinking hazily, now turned to dart back into their burrow. But Gau obviously had other plans for them: in a blur of motion, he leaped onto the stronger one, hissing in much the same manner as the furry beast had not long before. It kicked at him with its powerful hind feet, but the teenager downed it with a well-placed fist. Then he sat back on his haunches, murmuring something intelligible only to himself and possibly the rhobites. A dim golden glow, identical to what Sabin had witnessed mere moments before, crawled along the creature's body and sank into its fur. Within seconds, it leaped to its feet, and together the two beasts wobbled off across the savannah.

"Remarkable," Sabin murmured, shaking his head. "Just when I'd thought I'd seen it all, people like Terra and this kid come along and provethat I really don't know anything about this world at all. To be able to mimic the animals as they harness the power of the land...just by _watching_..."

"There are many who would say a similar thing after observing you," Shadow pointed out, flicking a wayward ant off his arm into the dust. The dry breeze nudged at the ties of his mask and Sabin wondered, as he had many times over the past few weeks, how the leather-encased ninja avoided cooking to death in the Veldt sun.

"There _do _seem to be quite a few similarities," Sabin agreed, "in execution, if not technique. I'd just never seen such raw, untrained ability before. And there are a few major differences. The way he actually seems to communicate with them..._I _never learned to do that. We just touch them with our minds; that's all. I wonder if this is the result of being born with a natural inclination toward Blitzing, but adapting it to a totally unique environment."

Shadow shrugged, tucking the rag away and turning the gleaming blade over in his hands. "Or perhaps it is something else altogether. The people of this land may continue to surprise you."

Sabin turned to him, curious. "What do you mean? You sound like you know firsthand."

The ninja's dark eyes flickered to his for a moment, then indifferently returned to his blade. "I spent several years in the regions east of here."

Sabin blinked, quite frankly stunned that the man had answered him so candidly. Well – candid for Shadow, anyhow. He raked his mind for any stray bits of knowledge on what towns or people might lie along the Eastern Continent's farthest reaches, but came up blank. Probably he should have paid better attention to Matron's geography lessons, but to be honest, Sabin suspected even his brother wouldn't know much about the most distant ends of an already backwater continent.

Watching the assassin from the corners of his eyes, he decided to take a gamble. "So you spent a few years in the eastern territories, but I'm guessing that's not where you grew up," he stated carefully. "Shadow, where _were_ you raised? If you don't mind me asking."

Shadow didn't immediately reply, and Sabin assumed, unsurprised, that he had pushed too hard. But then the assassin flipped his blade casually in one hand and spoke, eyes resting on the distant east. "Near Doma. Trained as one of the shinobi. Ninjas, as you Westerners call us. Samurai generally distrust us; as you have no doubt inferred from the comments of our _honorable_ companion–" the word was edged with an unmistakable tone of mockery, "–they consider our ways unpredictable and deceitful. However, I no longer belong with that sect."

Sabin nodded slowly. He shifted his bare back against the bark of his tree, careful not to snag his sunburned skin on the occasional thorn that jutted from its trunk. With these few revelations, in addition to one or two things the mercenary had mentioned during their long hours of travel together, so many of the mysteries surrounding his enigmatic friend were coming together. Not that Shadow had even been _particularly_ revelatory, as Sabin probably could have figured most of it out on his own if he had likewise paid attention during History or Cultural Events. (He suspected that as a student, he had been solely responsible for a good half of Matron's gray hairs.) At the same time, though, Shadow's past was more perplexing than ever. What was his connection to the lands eastward? Whatever it was, he suspected it didn't even beginto cover the dark labyrinth of tragedy and regret that made up this man's history.

_And why do you want to know so bad?_ he had to again reprove himself. _Honestly, man, it's none of your business! Let it go._

But a sudden thought occurred to him, and he latched onto it. "You had a family at some point, didn't you, Shadow? And I don't mean whoever raised you. I'm talking the wife and kids type."

Shadow froze, then slowly sheathed his blade. After a moment he stood, carefully brushing dust and bits of grass from his gear. Mentally, Sabin kicked himself. "I'm sorry, that was out of line. You don't have to answer."

"The fault is not yours," the mercenary replied, voice soft and level. "However, it is past time I take my leave."

Sabin levered himself to his feet. "Wait, you're leaving? _Now?" _

The mercenary gazed his way, eyes fathomless and emptier than he had seen them in some time. Shadow didn't answer, but instead turned and whistled sharply for Interceptor, hunting in the tall grasses near a distant rocky rise.

"Wait, Shadow," Sabin protested, stepping forward to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. The assassin turned to stare at him, and he let the hand drop. "At least wait until we get to Narshe. We can get you your money then. Goddesses know I probably owe you more than the original ten thousand, after everything we've been through."

"I will collect the sum we agreed upon at a later date," Shadow replied. He reached down and gracefully shouldered his pack; then, without further ado, started westward.

After only a few steps, however, he paused. Without turning around, he spoke. "You have been a good...partner. But I work alone now." And with that, he departed, turning his back on the eastern horizon. The tall, swaying grasses barely moved as he passed among them. Sabin watched as the man made his way toward Interceptor's hulking form, growing smaller with distance until the golden lands of the savannah swallowed both man and dog completely.

Sabin sighed softly and returned to his position against the tree's knotted trunk, pensive. Eventually, his sensitive hearing made note of a sort of muffled, rhythmic thudding sound approaching from the north. As it drew close, he finally turned to acknowledge it. "Heya, Cyan. How fare the Moblizites today?"

A quizzical look crossed the Doman's face. He sat perched on a large yellow chocobo, looking much more at home than he ever had in the Magitek Armor. "I do not believe they refer to themselves under such an appellation, Sir Sabin."

"Moblizians, then? Moblizzards? To be honest, that town's barely big enough for a name at all. To say nothing of the kids! I barely counted more than a dozen adults to every hundred or so urchins; how about you?"

"Thy use of hyperbole is amusing, if not entirely unfounded, sir," Cyan replied mildly. "However, I hardly think to call large families a crime."

"I'm not calling it a _crime_, Cyan. Just making an observation, is all. I don't suppose you managed to round up any more ferryboat captains willing to shuttle us all the way back to the Western Continent, did you?"

"Just the one. I failed to persuade him to depart any earlier than the date he originally offered, one month from the morrow."

Sabin sighed in frustration. "A month, still...that'll never work. Counting journey time, we wouldn't be back until the middle of summer...or, wait...winter? Which bloody side of the equator are we even _on_ right now? Anyway! The Empire will have conquered the rest of the world by then, for all we know! Maybe I should go talk to him."

Cyan eyed him, stance suddenly cautious. "I intend no offense, sir, but perhaps it is best that I remain the emissary for our little group." His eyes landed pointedly on Sabin's torn, baggy pants, bare chest, and a beard that by now was less rugged warrior and more anthropophobic miser.

Sabin smiled devilishly. "What, just because some of them couldn't handle the sight of a man of nature in all his glory –"

"I hazard to guess this was not so much the problem," Cyan said, obviously grasping for the politest words possible.

Sabin burst out laughing. "I'm just messing with you, Cyan. I promise the next time I go into town, I'll at least find a shirt first. Maybe even a razor, though at this point we might need something closer to garden shears."

The Doman nodded gravely, though Sabin couldn't help but note relief touch his features. Walking the bird over to join him in the shade, Cyan dismounted with impressive grace – particularly considering the fact that they were still lacking a saddle. Though, this minor detail didn't seem to perturb the samurai in the least; in fact, it had been his idea to enlist wild chocobos to their cause to begin with. After days of endless plodding through the Veldt, without a sign of civilization except a single crazy, shack-dwelling old man, Cyan had managed to track down a clump of rather dry and ratty-looking weeds he called "gysahl greens." The three of them had then proceeded to wander no less than four hours on end whistling alluringly and waving brownish clumps of grass over their heads like peace flags. At least, that's what Sabin had been doing. He quickly discovered that sending his senses out on a chocobo hunt didn't do him much good, as the Veldt seemed to crawl with just about every creature known to man and it became very difficult to mentally differentiate one from another. As a result, he was left to yell, "Here, chokey chokey chokey!" at the yellow puffballs as they stood, unconcernedly watching, from their distant rocky perches.

In the end, it had been Cyan who successfully lured one to their side, coaxing it over with soft words and gentle scratches beneath its beak. They managed to collect two more the following day, transforming a journey that would have taken weeks on foot into a matter of days.

Of course, that was before Shadow's bird spotted Interceptor for the first time and promptly bucked the ninja into an anthill. If it hadn't bolted straight off into the Veldt, Sabin was certain they would have dined on roast bird that night. Fortunately, they were only a day's journey from Mobliz at that point, so when Sabin's bird inexplicably ran away to join its friend an hour later, none of them were overly devastated.

Unfortunately, none of that did them much good when the single major population center remaining in the land turned out to be no more than a seaside fishing town of less than a thousand residents, a very large portion of whom seemed to be children, and when, out of the few adults, only one was willing to ferry them back to the Western Continent. In a month.

Sabin sighed and reached out to help the Doman tether his newest pet to the tree. As he did so, he caught sight of something glinting on the man's wrist. "Whatcha got there, Cyan?"

Cyan cleared his throat. "A gift from one of the townsfolk," he explained, obviously uncomfortable. "I attempted to decline, but the fellow was very insistent."

"Ahhh," Sabin replied knowingly. "The injured, soldier, eh?"

Cyan frowned. "How knewest thou of this?"

"A little black leather-clad bird told me." Sabin leaned forward to take a closer look. The item was some sort of bracer, beautifully crafted in steel and gold. "Looks valuable. Too bad you hadn't come along earlier. We could have used it to pay off Shadow."

Cyan glared, full of abject disapproval. "I daresay, sir, that would have been extremely dishonorable! This item was offered as a heartfelt gift, and as a heartfelt gift I shall receive it. For thine information, the soldier called it a Tintinibar, and claimed it to be imbued with healing properties. We may find use for it in journeys to come."

Sabin laughed and clapped the man on his armored shoulder. "All right, have it your way," he conceded. Pulling the chocobo's makeshift lead tight around the tree, he stepped back and absently rubbed at a patch of sap on his palm. A warm breeze rustled the canopy of leaves above and dried the light sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. Cyan paced up beside him, brushing a bit of reddish dust from a cape that had somehow managed to stay not only intact, but majestic, despite having been dragged through battles, rivers, woods, waterfalls, hostile undead, and wild chocobo hunts.

"I say," Cyan began, "dare I ask where our reticent friend has disappeared to?"

Sabin smiled cheerfully. "Gone."

The samurai regarded him suspiciously. "Might I inquire as to the source of thy cheer? I was under the impression thou considerest the man a friend."

"Ah, he'll be back," Sabin replied, nonchalant. "And you're right, I do count him as one of my friends. I smile because, despite himself, I think he just may possibly consider me a friend right back. Ohh, I bet that makes him _sooo_ mad." He grinned wickedly and jigged a little in glee.

Cyan stared at him, obviously baffled. "Indeed."

"Indeed!" Sabin confirmed. "Anyway, where has Gau run off to? We should round him up; I bet he's getting hungry. Then you and I need to figure out what to do next."

A flurry of leaves showered on him from above and a smudged, grinning face suddenly popped into view. "Gau know," Gau said, hanging by his knees from a long, gnarled branch.

"What the...how'd you sneak up there, kid?"

The boy grinned impishly. "Gau crept up while Mr. Thou busy bragging." Small clusters of animal bones, sewn into the kid's grubby furs for the presumable purpose of decoration, rattled musically as he swung.

"_Bragging? _Why you little..." Sabin swiped at him amiably, but the boy flipped himself off the branch. Landing in a crouch, he loped over to hide behind Cyan, peering out from behind his knees and shooting Sabin ghoulish looks.

Cyan laid a calming hand on the boy's head. "Young one," he said, "art thou hungered?"

"Hungered?" Gau stood and bounded over to stand against the tree trunk. "Hungered..." he repeated, almost as if he were tasting the word itself. "Gau not hungered. Gau eat rhobite for lunch."

"You _ate_ the thing?" Sabin asked. "What'd it taste like, cuteness gone wrong?"

"Taste like rhobite," Gau replied, looking at him quizzically. "Mr. Thou, quit changing subject. Gau know what to do next."

"_Me _change...?! Gah, it's not worth it. Okay Gau, what do we do next?" he asked, forcing a patience that was nothing short of saintlike into his voice.

The boy's eyes lit up. "Gau find shiny thing! Shiny thing take Cyan and Mr. Thou across the water! Gau know because Gau try. Gau eat nasty fish for days," he concluded glumly.

The two men exchanged a look. "Shiny thing...what, like a boat?" Sabin asked. "I'm afraid a little rowboat isn't going to do us much good out there in the ocean, kid, thanks all the same."

"No! Shiny thing make water like this!" Gau waved his arms emphatically at the vast blue skies of the Veldt. "Like air! Put shiny thing in snake path, snake take you _fast_."

Sabin stared at him, utterly confounded. "So let me get this straight. We dip your shiny thing in the water to attract _snakes?_ I've gotta admit, I was never that good at fishing. Not to mention I'm not entirely sure how that will help us get back home, and I just can't endorse a plan involving snakes. Really not a fan of the things."

Gau gazed at him with an expression hinting at heroic patience. "_No_, Mr. Thou." He began his explanation anew, speaking slowly and patronizingly as if Sabin were a particularly dense child. "You have shiny thing. You jump in snake path. You find faraway land _fast_." He sat back and folded his arms, his look clearly declaring that if Sabin didn't understand this time, he was truly a hopeless cause.

Sabin slapped a palm against his forehead, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "_Look, _kid –"

Cyan broke in, voice conciliatory. "I believe what the lad refers to is the Serpent Trench, a phenomenally swift current that runs northward toward Nikeah. Ancient mariners attempted to exploit it for trade, but more often than not would find themselves dashed against rocks or snared in terrible storms. Many would disappear altogether, leaving not a trace of their existence. It is also said that enormous monsters lurk in its depths. Most modern sailors steer well clear of it, finding that the risks far outweigh the benefits."

"Huh..." Come to think of it, he seemed to recall that Shadow had mentioned the thing, as well. "Okay, so. Gau's shiny thing will take us safely through the waters of the Serpent Trench, which will then dump us onto the docks of Nikeah in...what...weeks? Days?"

Gau pointed at the sun, hovering high in the sky, then windmilled his arm in a full revolution. "One sun," he declared.

"What, one _day?_ Twenty-four _hours_?" He exchanged a startled look with Cyan. "That's a mighty fast current."

"One sun!" Gau repeated, nodding triumphantly.

"Gau," Cyan said, "Exactly where is this shiny object thou speakest of?"

The boy spun on his toes like a dancer, coming to a halt with one arm outstretched toward the south. "Many suns! Big cave on other sea!"

"Other sea..." Sabin murmured, then blinked, incredulous. "What, you mean the southern end of the _continent? _Geez, kid, you don't settle for less, do you."

"Even so," Cyan mused, "because the ferryboat captain has left us with little choice but to wait, we are not lacking in time. On chocoboback, the journey should remain a mere matter of days. Might it be possible to travel to young Gau's cave, investigate this shining object of his, and, if it fails to prove useful, return here in time to board the ferry?"

Sabin thought, absently picking at the drying sap on his hands as he squinted toward the south. The gold-tinted land stretched into eternity, punctuated only by the occasional spreading, flat canopy of an umbrella tree or the scattering of blackened boulders. An enormous bird of prey, sailing peacefully along on warm air currents, suddenly plunged toward the earth below. He watched as it returned to the skies with what appeared to be a full-grown baskervor clenched firmly in its claws.

Sabin turned back to his friends, a resolute smile on his face and a manic glint in his eye. "All right then," he said. "Cyan, it looks like you'd better catch us some more chocobos."

**xxxxx**

Three days later, Sabin ran for his life, struggling to keep his balance as the ground shook beneath his feet.

Just behind him, a massive beast thundered along in pursuit, a few bedraggled chocobo feathers still poking from the corners of its mouth. The thing was a Veldt behemoth, deep violet in coloring to the point that it was nearly black. Muscles the size of barns bulged from its shoulders and back as it pounded along on all fours, and a thick, spiked tail swayed wildly behind, obliterating trees and minor landforms in its wake. Not that Sabin had gotten much of a chance to stop and examine it before it had turned his chocobo into its early morning breakfast, swallowing the poor thing in a single gulp before turning to him for dessert.

He pumped his legs, bare feet flying over the dry grasses, letting his mind focus only on the rocky seaside cliffs lying in wait up ahead. Sheer and plunging a hundred feet into the ocean, they were his salvation. Possibly. Assuming that if he even made it alive, they'd be rocky enough for him to clamber down and escape. Unfortunately, being the height of a three story building gave the creature the distinct advantage of a rather long stride. An enormous shadow began to darken the ground around him, and a hot wave of death-scented breath ruffled the back of his hair. _Okay, time to change tactics_, he thought.

A pair of violet, heavily muscled, claw-tipped legs tore into the earth on each side of him, Sabin's sky now completely obscured by several dozen tons of ravening monster. _That time would be _now, _Sabin. _Hurling himself to the ground, helped along by the quaking tumult of the earth, he rolled awkwardly onto his back. A gaping jaw the size (and smell) of a chocobo stable descended on him, long black teeth gleaming wickedly.

Sabin closed his eyes and melted away into the Veldt. The life here was so diverse, so ubiquitous, that he barely even had to think to reach into his Blitz well. Only a fraction of a second into his meditation, his eyes snapped open. Jaw clenched, he hurled an Aura Bolt into the behemoth's cavernous mouth and straight into its brain.

At least, that's what he had _intended_ to do. At the last instant the monster flinched to the side, demonstrating rather impressive reflexes for a creature of its size. The beam hit high along the side of its neck, burning deep into the cordlike muscles and charring the flesh. The beast reared and bellowed in pain. Sabin gasped and jammed the heels of his palms into his ears, the noise thrumming in his head and vibrating through the earth beneath him. The sound seemed to go on and on. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes, futilely trying to curl himself into the ground, praying that his eardrums wouldn't burst.

Finally the roar ceased, leaving a rather concerning ringing in his head in its place. Sabin cracked an eye open.

The behemoth was staring at him, and Sabin could swear he saw calculation in those eyes. Slowly, it sat back on its haunches. Then it very deliberately stood to its full height.

Sabin's eyes widened. As if the thing wasn't big _enough_ on all fours... He had never fought a behemoth in person, as they were somewhat scarce in most parts of the Western Continent. But Master Duncan had told him stories. Somehow, he didn't expect the things to be quite so intelligent. This one was languorously lording its size over him, practically _smirking_ as it did so.

Sabin carefully stood as well, not taking his eyes off the creature's devious face. And then, without warning, it swung its tail like a club. The appendage hurtled through the air, mowing through thorny shrubbery and snapping small trees into kindling. Sabin yelled and threw himself back to the ground. Splinters pelted his back as the spiked mass of muscle grazed the air inches above his body. Well, it didn't so much _graze _it as bulldoze it aside, the tail's force and speed causing the air to hum as it passed.

Sabin stumbled back to his feet, breathing heavily, his muscles taut. Annoyed, the behemoth readied itself for another attack. The tail swung again, this time skimming low along the ground. Sabin tensed to jump, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't miscalculate and snag himself on one of those wicked, blood red spikes.

But the attack never came. The beast shrieked – a truly horrible sound – and stumbled backward, plowing through a stand of umbrella trees and uprooting several large boulders. Black blood leaked from the end of a tail that he noticed – a bit belatedly – was missing its tip. Sabin's eyes roved frantically about, coming to a rest on a certain familiar glint of metal.

Cyan stood resolutely nearby, bearing a katana coated in thick black blood but otherwise appearing totally unconcerned. Catching Sabin's eye, he flashed him a rather reckless smile. Sabin grinned unsteadily back. Climbing to his feet, he ran to flank the monster, readying another Blitz. The behemoth screamed at them defiantly, and then – oddly – turned away. Sabin frowned. Where was the thing going? It wasn't running away so much as angling itself off along the cliff's edge toward a craggy outcropping, which, strangely enough, seemed to be producing small projectiles that sailed through the air and bounced off the monster's tough hide –

"_Gau!" _he gasped. In a burst of panicked energy, he charged after it. A small, logical part of him pressed a nonexistent palm to a nonexistent face as it considered the bald fact that he, Sabin, was voluntarily chasing after one of the largest, deadliest creatures known to man. Master Duncan had been the bravest and strongest person he'd ever known, and even _he_ probably would have hunkered down somewhere and taken a moment to think things through.

_Yeah, well, unless I do something the kid's going to be joining Fluffy down a super-sized monster gullet_, he mentally ground. Shoving his thoughts aside, he increased his pace, but the beast was outdistancing him effortlessly. Sabin could now see a dirty blond mop of hair poking up from behind the rocks. The boy was staring intently at the approaching behemoth. Sabin knew the expression; sure enough, seconds later a silent, otherworldly flame encircled the beast like a wreath, an attack he recognized as belonging to a creature they had encountered in the Phantom Wood. The behemoth hissed and snapped at the flames as they pressed in against it, its muscles momentarily seizing. Then the phantom flares melted away as quietly as they had begun and the monster continued on its way, unperturbed.

Sabin growled and pushed his body even harder, desperate now. Already a strong runner from his years of training, he virtually flew across the savannah, his feet tearing the grass up in gouges as he pushed off the earth. He barely felt the intensity of the sun burning against his skin, the Veldt winds combining with his breakneck speed to dry the sweat from his body even as it formed. But it wasn't enough. He watched Gau disappear as the teenager scrambled for shelter among the boulders. Somewhere behind him, Cyan was yelling. The monster closed in, towering over the youth.

In a final reckless move, Sabin flung a Fire Dance at the beast. But he didn't aim for the behemoth itself – the Blitz wasn't powerful enough to penetrate the thing's leathery hide, not without a supplementary source of fuel. So he aimed for the long, dry grasses instead. Focusing, he willed the flames to concentrate in on themselves rather than leaping about wherever they pleased, as had been the case back in Doma. It was difficult. Slowing to a jog, he found himself muttering curses at the disorderly, mini images of himself (try as he might, he just couldn't seem to produce them in any other form). A few hopped away like cheaply-made fireworks, but much to his surprise, the rest performed as he commanded. A wall of fire burst to life in front of the monster, fed by the parched fields. Startled, it skidded to a stop, claws ripping trenches into the ground.

"Hey, ugly!" Sabin hollered, waving his arms. With a snort, the beast shied away from the flames, rearing back to again tower on its hind legs. Then it swung around to regard him. "Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you! How about you come on over here and pick on someone your own size? Wait, that doesn't work..."

The behemoth cocked its head. Then, it almost seemed to grin.

With earth-shaking impact, it dropped to all fours. And thundered after Sabin once more. Only now it was significantly more annoyed.

_So here we are again_, Sabin thought to himself, arms pinwheeling as he changed direction mid-run. He eyed the cliffs, remnants of his original strategy returning to mind. But even if he did manage to safely climb to the bottom, his friends would be left to fight the thing on their own. Sabin thought hard, rearranging his original goal into something akin to a plan. Actually, Edgar wouldn't have called it a "plan" so much as sheer idiocy, but then again, Edgar wasn't here. And he, Cyan, and Shadow had willingly leapt over the edge of Baron Falls simply because it was easier than thinking up a safer way down. What were a couple of seaside cliffs to him?

Turning halfway around, he shot an Aura Bolt in the behemoth's general direction. His aim was off, but one advantage to the thing's size was that failing to hit it would be on par with missing the broad side of a barn. His efforts were rewarded with a howl of rage as the beam struck – somewhere vital, he hoped. Without pausing to think, he hurled another over his shoulder. Now his concentration finally snapped, consumed by fatigue and the hefty distraction of being pursued by a twelve ton beast.

And the behemoth was angry. Its eyes were now locked onto him with a certain grim resolve that was disconcerting to witness in the expression of a wild animal. If its movements had seemed quick before, they were now steeped in a ferocity that sent it flying after him like a loosed arrow. Sabin ran as hard as he could, the earth's pounding nearly sending him to his knees. If he could just make it to the edge – only a _little _further...

He leaped over the edge of the cliff. The behemoth, its attention consumed by its tiny, irritating prey, barked in surprise and scrabbled for purchase, but its momentum was too great. A massive shadow, wreathed in loose dirt and flying rocks, sailed over Sabin's head – missing him by only a few feet – even as he reached for the hanging roots of a particularly tenacious tree clinging to the lip of the bluff. His hands managed to find purchase and he swung, slamming into the cliff face, grunting as his shoulders were nearly pulled from their sockets. The behemoth howled, clawing at the air as it fell. Then, with an almighty splash, it disappeared beneath the waves.

Sabin hung, fighting for breath. He listened to the sounds of his slowing heartbeat as a fine shower of dirt trickled into his hair and onto his face.

Then he laughed, a breathless, exuberant sound. He began to whoop, but at that moment a large clod of dirt dislodged itself from above and landed precisely in his mouth.

Rapid footsteps sounded from overhead. Cyan and Gau appeared, leaning anxiously over the edge.

The samurai stared into the waves where the monster had disappeared, looking stricken. He turned slowly to the boy. "Sir Gau," he began, "I...I fear this time we may have lost our good friend once and for all..."

Sabin spit out his mouthful of dirt. "Hey! Give me a little credit!" he protested, still panting for air. Another shower of grime fell to dust his face, mixing with the sweat that already coated it. He wiped at it irritably with a shoulder. "You think a measly little behemoth could take me out?"

His two friends started, whirling to stare at the bent, scraggly tree that protruded nearly horizontally from the rocky ledge. "Down here," Sabin directed, shifting his rather precarious grip on the dusty roots.

"Thou livest!" Cyan exclaimed at the same moment Gau gleefully yelled, "Mr. Thou!" The two rushed over, and, after much grunting and complaining, managed to haul him back to the sweet, solid earth of the Veldt.

Sabin breathed a long sigh of relief, collapsing backward to lie in the prickly grass. Smoke hovered in the air above him, marring the vibrant blue fabric of the Veldt's enormous sky. The grass fire, however, seemed to be burning itself out already, stalled by the large trenches the behemoth had inadvertently torn open with its claws. He rolled his head to look at the boy. "No more behemoth fighting for you, Gau. You nearly got yourself killed!"

"_Gau_ get killed?" The boy scoffed. "Gau see Mr. Thou run like frightened deer and fall over cliff."

"That was on purpose! It's called a diversion! Like when a mother bird leads a cat away from her nest...not saying I'm anybody's mom, but regardless, I saved _your_ life, kid."

"Gau not scared," Gau declared. "Behemoth easy to kill."

"_Easy?_ Really...and how many behemoths have _you_ taken out, exactly?"

"Four," the boy announced. He stretched, lazily batting at a passing fly as if he brought down three story monsters for sport.

"Four, eh? Is that an example of back-country Veldt math, because that thing was _not_ easy to take down–"

"Gentlemen!" Cyan interjected, sheathing his katana and extending his hands placatingly. "Sir Sabin, thou art truly accomplished in the fighting arts. Gau, lad, thine own skills often astound me. I harbor no doubts that thou hast successfully slain the most ferocious of beasts."

Gau smiled, then turned to quirk an eyebrow at Sabin.

"All right, all right," Sabin conceded, wiping a trickle of muddy sweat from the end of his nose. "Gau, if you say you killed four behemoths, then you killed four behemoths. Now, back to business. Where's this shiny thing of yours?"

The boy immediately perked up. "Shiny!" he crowed, and, without warning, bounded off along the lip of the cliff.

Sabin and Cyan exchanged a look, then hastened after. They had jogged along for a mile or so when Gau suddenly vanished over the edge. The two men exclaimed in alarm, but when they reached the site of his disappearance, they realized the rock cut downward to form a natural, jagged trail down the cliff face. Gau was already a good twenty feet along, slithering among teetering boulders and sliding along steep walls as if he had been born adhesive.

Sabin shared another glance with his companion, eyebrow raised. Then, shrugging, he dropped to the ground and rolled himself cautiously over the edge, Cyan following closely behind. The samurai grunted and growled as his armor clanged and bounced off the stone, setting him off balance and forcing Sabin to reach out and haul him back onto the "path" by his tattered cape on more than one occasion. As for himself, the descent took him back home – his second home, though perhaps it had always been his first – on Mount Koltz. He and Vargas had often made games out of dangerous climbs like these – initially scaling together, as partners, arrayed in ropes and picks; later competing, bare of tools except their own fingernails as they raced each other to the top. Now he descended the rock face effortlessly, his toes curling naturally around ledges as his fingers unconsciously sought out hollows and ridges in the stone. The surf crashed closer, pelting his overheated body with a fine, cooling spray. Sabin sighed in contentment, falling into a partial trance as his muscles worked. At this moment, he would almost settle for that extra month in the Veldt over the frozen canyons of Narshe, anxious brother or no.

Below them, Gau detached himself from the rock face and hopped onto what appeared to be a sturdy lip of rock, protruding only a dozen feet or so above a foaming, shallow surf. It only took Sabin a moment to note that the platform led into a wide, open cave. Minutes later, he and Cyan had joined the boy inside his secret cavern, sighing in relief at the refuge it offered from the blazing sun.

"I sure hope that behemoth didn't know how to swim," Sabin remarked, wiping his forehead as he leaned against the cold rock wall. "All right, Gau. Where's that treasure?"

The boy smiled and pointed into the water. "Down," he declared, then deftly grabbed one of Sabin's pouches and began rummaging around inside. Fishing out a sizable hunk of dried meat, he gnawed loudly as he watched the older men, eyes shining in satisfaction.

"Okayyy..." Frowning, Sabin leaned forward, peering into the depths. The cave's mouth curled inward to admit a small lagoon, partitioned from the surf by a collection of barely-submerged coral. The waters here were an unbelievable shade of turquoise, transparent as glass. Even so, Sabin mused, that pale underwater shelf would have been a difficult hazard for mariners to spot, night _or_ day. If a ship were to venture too close, it likely would have been drawn in by the surf and then–

"Ah..." he murmured, his eyes at last lighting on the source of Gau's interest. A distorted outline hovered beneath the flat surface of the lagoon, misshapen and overgrown with sea flora, but unmistakably the remains of a ship. He squinted, leaning closer. Something did indeed appear to be shining deep inside the hold, glinting in the play of filtered sunbeams...

Sabin cackled. "Gau, you're amazing! Locke's gonna be so jealous. Even if your treasure doesn't take us across the trench, this trip was worth it for that glorious little fact alone. Hey Cyan, hold down the fort here while I take a quick look, will ya?" Without waiting for a reply, he took a deep breath and dove in.

The placid waters closed over his head, salty and warm. The lagoon extended deeper than it appeared from the surface, but Sabin was fairly confident in his breath-holding abilities. Additionally, the water was clear and the cave open enough to admit quite a bit of sun, effectively nullifying the problem of visibility. He reached the decaying hull fairly quickly, stopping for just a moment to allow a large school of glittering, pale white fish to drift past. Then, pulling himself along the deck, he slipped into the ship's belly.

It was darker here, but holes and missing planks provided ambient light. The hold opened into a wide room punctuated by rusting pillars; these had obviously once supported bulkheads that had since rotted away. Old crates and debris lined some of the walls, but otherwise nothing of interest appeared. At least, nothing of the valuable treasure variety that would transport them speedily back to the Western Continent. Sabin supposed that the colorful, multi-eyed sponges gazing at him beadily (perhaps hungrily?) from where they occupied one wall would be _quite_ interesting if one happened to be a marine biologist. Giving them a wide berth, he stopped to assess. Where _was _that shining thing, anyway? It appeared that most of the ship's bottom half had been swallowed by the sands of the ocean floor, which rather limited the potential of his exploration. Yet, he had seen _something_...hadn't he? Unless it had been nothing more than a pretty fish, in which case he and Gau were going to have _words_...

Something flashed in the corner of his vision, refracted by ripples borne of his movements. Sabin seized upon it. There! Behind a pile of now unidentifiable debris, the hold appeared to extend deeper than he had originally judged – waving seaweed and shifting light had initially tricked his eyes into disregarding most of the shadowy back portion. Excited, Sabin hurried forward, launching himself over a heap of spongy rubble. He ducked beneath a fallen beam and into a closed-off room that had somehow still remained intact. Bright blue minnows swarmed his face as he glanced around.

And there was the shiny thing, hanging against the far wall. In fact, there were several of them, though one appeared to be missing. Sabin's eyes narrowed as he swam forward to take a closer look. Something brushed his foot and he absently glanced down, kicking away trailing seaweed...

Except it wasn't seaweed. Bubbles poured from his mouth as he cried out in muffled alarm. Two ancient skeletons sat huddled on the floor, their arms raised toward him as if in invitation. Calming his pounding heart, Sabin sternly lectured himself on the merits of logic. Skeletons weren't alive; they weren't inviting him to do _anything_, their midsections were simply crushed under the weight of a fallen beam as their arms were left to float free in the currents. Probably. Although...had that one just moved? Well, anyway, he was running out of air, and his friends would be starting to wonder by now. Grabbing an armful of Gau's "treasures" off the wall, Sabin launched himself back toward the main hold. As he passed through the rubble again, something bony and cold seemed to close around his foot. He shook it away. _Skeletons aren't alive, idiot. Unless you're in the Phantom Woods, apparently. But that's the ONLY place. Most likely. _For good measure, he turned around and blasted the room into oblivion beneath the force of an Aura Bolt.

A moment later he surfaced, gulping in the taste of sweet oxygen. "Sodding skeletons," he muttered between gasps.

Cyan knelt at the edge, gripping Sabin by the elbow and towing him back to shore. "Sir Sabin! Wast thou successful?" Gau blinked at him from where he crouched behind the samurai, eyes wide and curious.

In reply, Sabin deposited his armful of plunder at the man's feet, then hoisted himself up onto the rocky ledge beside it. Cyan frowned as he picked at a swath of rubbery material. "What..."

"Wet suits," Sabin supplied, rolling into a sitting position and doggedly attempting to squeeze water from his pants. "And some sort of breathing helmet and oxygen tank combination, from what it looks like." He abandoned what was quickly proving to be an exercise in futility and leaned toward one of the unwieldy metallic helmets, knocking on it experimentally. "Gau, do these things really work?"

In reply, Gau darted out from behind Cyan's legs, skipped over to a large rock, and triumphantly whipped out an identical suit from a little hollow beneath it. "Shiny thing works," he attested.

Sabin's jaw dropped. Then he sputtered. "Gau...you had one of those things _all this time?_"

Gau sighed and gently laid the suit over the rock, face awash with exaggerated patience. "Mr. Thou never listen. Gau tell Mr. Thou that shiny thing take Gau to faraway land. How Gau know if Gau not try?"

Sabin turned to stare incredulously at Cyan. His friend shrugged. "The lad did say–"

"Never mind what he said!" Sabin broke in. "The kid sent me down there treasure hunting with skeletons and excessively ocular sponges when he had one all along!"

"Silly Mr. Thou," Gau said, looking at him quizzically. "You, me, Cyan can't all fit in one suit."

Sabin groaned and flopped back against the ledge. "Never mind. Look, let's just get this show on the road." He snatched the nearest suit from the pile and held it up. "Here Cyan, this one looks like it fits you. Uh...you're going to have to take your armor off, you know."

Now it was the knight's turn to blink disbelievingly. "I...impossible," he stuttered, paling. "This mail was bestowed upon my ancestors by King Doma the Third, then passed down along the line of my fathers until, through payment of mine own sweat and blood, I earned the right to its use in battle! I cannot simply cast it aside like yesterday's refuse!"

Sabin sighed loudly, then put on his best patient face. "Cyan. Unless you want to walk all the way to Narshe on the _bottom of the ocean_, you can't bring your armor. Come on...what would your fathers say? You think they'd like you to waste time puttering around out here in the middle of nowhere? Or would they want you to go out there and avenge your nation? We can always come back for it, you know. I'm pretty sure Gau and those dead people down there are the only ones who have ever laid eyes on this cavern. Right, Gau?"

Mouth bulging with partially-chewed jerky, Gau replied, "Fyan's armor fafe here."

Sabin turned back to his friend. Quirking an eyebrow at the man, he held the suit up flat against his body, then waggled it back and forth seductively.

With a growl, Cyan snatched the rubbery material from his hands.

**xxxxx**

Several hours later, the three of them stood at the edge of a low outcropping, watching the warm shallows foam gently around the rocks.

"Well," Sabin began thoughtfully, staring out toward the seemingly boundless horizon that did in fact end, somewhere along the line, in Narshe. "I began this trip floundering around like a drowned rat. Seems like I've come full circle." He shifted uncomfortably against the tight rubber of a wetsuit that felt vacuum sealed against his skin. "After all this is over, though, I don't think I'm going to experience any burning desire to take up swimming as a hobby. In fact, maybe I'll head back to my homeland for a while. There're no annoyingly wet rivers or ocean trenches out there – it's soft sand and red rock all the way, with nothing between you and infinity but the setting sun."

"Someday I should like to revisit this homeland of thine," Cyan remarked, squinting his eyes against the sun as he, too, gauged the horizon. His voice softened, becoming almost hesitant. "Doma hath forsworn the world for far too long."

"And Gau!" said Gau, leaping in a circle around them. Abruptly, he stopped and laughed. "Mr. Thou look like hermit crab in wrong-sized shell."

"Shut up, kid," Sabin growled. "Just because that shipwrecked crew of yours sized everything with famine victims in mind doesn't mean we should all conform." He pulled awkwardly at his collar, then hefted the heavy helmet in his arms. "Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"

Cyan eyed the rippling surface, which, beyond the breakers, looked like any other ocean. But not far below the surface, apparently, rushed the fastest and most dangerous current on the planet. "We ought to think of some manner in which to stay connected," the samurai suggested. "Otherwise, there is no telling if we should ever find one another again."

"Good idea," Sabin replied. "What if we use some of those vines from the trees over there? Gau, what do –"

He was interrupted by a whoop and a loud splash as Gau gleefully cannonballed into the waves. The boy surfaced briefly, helmet fastened tightly in place, and waved. Then he vanished into the depths.

Sabin trailed off. The two men exchanged a look.

"Aw, hell," Sabin muttered. Without another word, he donned his helmet and leaped into the surf. Seconds later, another splash indicated that Cyan had followed suit.

Together, they made for the Serpent Trench and northward toward Narshe.

_A/N: End Chapter 2 (or what I think of as Sabin's arc). Unfortunately, the next "chapter" may not be out for quite some time, as this takes me a while to write and daily life is very demanding. But I will finish it, eventually. In the meantime, thanks so much for all your support._


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